


Never Happened Next

by china_shop



Series: Never Happened [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: AU, Alternate Timelines, Angst, Crossover, Crossover Pairing, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fic, Hats, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-03
Updated: 2010-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-10 22:37:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'For better or for worse' includes 'for Neal Caffrey.'</p><p>Three parallel sequels to Never Happened. Contains a minor Due South crossover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Happened Next

## The First Life: All roads lead back here

It took the whole weekend for Peter to summon the nerve to confess to Elizabeth. On Sunday evening he let Satchmo out into the backyard and watched him nose through the drifts of fallen leaves by the back fence. The night was chilly, with mist forming halos around the streetlights, and Peter knew he couldn't put it off any longer. When Satch was done, Peter called him inside and went to find Elizabeth.

She'd just had a bath and was curled on the couch in her robe, a mug of tea at her side. She looked up from her Agatha Christie novel and raised her eyebrows, smiling a welcome.

"I need to tell you something," Peter said. "And I need you to know that I love you." Her smile faltered, and he took a deep breath. "I've—fallen for someone."

"Is it Neal?" She put down her book without looking, busy searching his face, and Peter winced at her lack of surprise.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Smart, remember?" El was wary, but apparently prepared to hear him out before she passed judgment. "Is it serious?"

Peter moved the book so he could sit beside her. "He kissed me."

"I don't think I like where this is going," said El, pulling her robe tighter, keeping a distance between them. "How long have you been sitting on this?"

"Since Friday. I should have told you sooner, but I didn't know how," said Peter, working to keep his voice level. "It was just a kiss." In his fantasies over the last two days, Elizabeth had been tolerant, even encouraging. But it wasn't fair to wish for that—there were limits to El's open-mindedness, as there should be. Her quiet reaction was more than Peter deserved. "We were drunk. It was a mistake—we both knew it was a mistake. We agreed to pretend it never happened."

"And you can live with that?" said El. "Because 'for better or for worse' includes 'for Neal Caffrey,' you know."

"I know," said Peter, and sagged with relief when she snuggled up against his side and rested her head on his shoulder. "It won't happen again, I promise," he said, into her hair.

"Oh, Peter." She put her hand on his chest. "If it had to happen, why couldn't it have been someone I don't like?" Her sigh was hot through his cotton shirt. "Dammit!"

"I'm sorry," Peter told her, hugging her tightly. "Tell me what I can do to make things right."

"Don't do it again!" she said sternly. Then she kissed him softly on the cheek. "And take me away. We need a vacation."

"Anything," said Peter.  
 

* * * * *

  
 

Monday was a strain, but Neal was himself, iridescent and charming, flirting with half the people who crossed their paths, regardless of status or sex. Peter busied himself with paperwork and drank too much coffee, and after a few hours, he eased back into his accustomed role. It wasn't long before he could convince himself the whole thing had been a drunken prank on Neal's part, a con.

The affair of the Le Joyau diamond—with Neal ending up back in prison and the revelations about Fowler—only cemented Peter's resolve that nothing could happen between him and Neal, for Neal's sake as much as his own. People were watching them. Neal's behavior was unpredictable at the best of times, and there was a reason newly recovering addicts—which, in Peter's view, included recovering forgers—weren't supposed to start romantic relationships. And there was El, always El.

Peter took her to the Hamptons, where the weather was too cold and it rained off and on, but there was a fireplace in their room. El was kind, wry when Peter was distracted, and sexy as hell. By the end of the weekend, Peter had almost managed to forget about Neal.

He told himself that warning Kate off was a purely altruistic move, and after that the whole thing became background noise. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to keep him up nights.

Elizabeth's manner toward Neal remained kind, and Neal continued to tease Peter, argue with him and dazzle him, dancing up to the line but never crossing it, so precise it felt calculated and therefore impersonal. That drunken Friday night might as well have been a dream.

It wasn't until March, in Neal's apartment, when Neal all but admitted to planning to steal the music box, when Peter said in all sincerity, "I don't understand you. I gave you a shot at a better life," and Neal, statue-still and not hiding anything, looked at him and said outright, "It's not the life I want." It wasn't till then that it hit home what Neal had offered him, and how much damage Peter had done by refusing.

Neal's misery was plain. His loyalty wasn't in question, he knew he was being used by Fowler and whoever was above him, he didn't want to go against Peter—

And if Peter had bridged the distance between them then, had wrapped his arms around Neal and kissed him and said _Don't._ Said _We'll rescue Kate together_ and followed through on that. If Peter had, just once, put Neal before Elizabeth, he wouldn't be standing here now, at a small airstrip by the Hudson, willing Neal with all his might to stay, while still being hamstrung by his own inability to come right out and say what Neal needed to hear: _I love you, I want you, stay with me._

Instead, he resorted to "You have people who care about you," knowing it was half-assed, that it wasn't enough, that Neal couldn't do this anymore—hang around and hope.

That it was time for Peter to let him go.

"You said goodbye to everyone but me," he called, saying to Neal's back what he couldn't to his face.

But before Neal could reply, Kate was on the steps of the tiny Lear, then the ground, running to Neal, hands out-stretched. "Come on, come on! We're waiting for you—hurry up! God, I've missed you so much!"

They kissed, wrapped around each other, laughing, and Peter fought to be glad for Neal: he had what he'd searched for, for so long. Maybe they were meant to be, Neal and Kate. Maybe she was the one.

Peter had already found the love of his life in El, he had no business wanting more, so it was for the best that Neal and Kate take off with OPR's blessing, and that Peter get over this obsession and move on. He shoved Neal's consultant's badge into his pocket and started to turn away.

Before he'd taken a step, a loud _crack_ echoed across the airstrip, and the plane, which had been sitting, stationary and innocent on the dull gray runway, exploded into an enormous ball of searing orange heat and acrid flame and noise, filling the icy air with smoke and shrapnel.

Peter lunged for Neal to pull him away from the wreckage and keep him safe. But Neal was already on the ground, shielding Kate with his body, his face white. "We're okay," Peter heard him say. "You're okay. I've got you."

Peter clenched his jaw, horrified at what could have happened, and furiously aware there must have been a pilot and co-pilot on board.

Kate was scrambling to her feet, helping Neal up, both of them limping toward the hangar. Kate's pants were torn, and her knee was bleeding.

"We'll find him," Neal told her, looking to Peter for confirmation. "Fowler or whoever did this, we'll find out and we'll get them."

Peter locked gazes with him. "We will."

Kate ignored Peter, looked up at Neal with big eyes. "I know where to start."  
 

* * * * *

  
 

Six weeks of desperate investigations, skirting regulations and ignoring death threats and near misses, ended with Fowler suspended, his superior scheduled to be brought before the senate, and Elizabeth immersed in planning Neal and Kate's wedding.

Late on a Wednesday afternoon, Neal knocked on Peter's office door and said, "Peter, I want you to be my best man."

Peter pushed his chair back and looked up, keeping his expression neutral. "I don't think that's a good idea. Why not Haversham?"

Neal grinned. "Mozzie doesn't believe in marriage. 'Why tell the State who you're screwing? It's none of their business—it's just another paper trail.'" He shrugged that aside and studied Peter, his smile fading. "Why isn't it a good idea?"

"You know why," said Peter.

Neal came in and shut the door behind him. "Tell me."

_Because I still don't trust your girlfriend, even though I have no reason not to. Because after all this time, whenever I look at you, I taste whisky. Because—_But he'd put Neal through this for months; it was Peter's turn to suck it up. "You hate my suit."

Neal relaxed into a smile. "Peter, you're not wearing that damned suit to my wedding. That's your Incarcerate Neal Suit."

"You know what they say about marriage," said Peter weakly.

"Promise me." Neal's intensity was a thin taut thread, only perceptible because Peter was looking for it.

The barrel of Peter's pen dug into his fingertips. "Okay. I promise."

"Good," said Neal, sounding satisfied. "Now come on, it's nearly five-thirty. Shouldn't you be heading home to Elizabeth?"  
 

* * * * *

  
 

The wedding passed, the days grew longer, and the sun blazed down on the city making the sidewalks dip and blur. One Saturday, just after midnight, Peter tracked Neal to the backroom of a deli on West 14th and found him sitting at a counter, up to his elbows in fancy cheeses, tubs of olives and stolen antique jewelry worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Neal looked up in shock when the door opened. "Peter—"

"Neal, what the hell's going on?"

"It's not what you—?"

"Then what—?"

They spoke over each other, as though they were rushing for a finish line, but then Neal skidded to a halt. "No, you're right. You caught me." He looked tired. "You might as well arrest me."

"You didn't steal these," said Peter. "It was Kate. It must have been Kate."

"No, Peter. I did it. I can prove it." And Neal started describing in elaborate detail how he'd stolen each and every piece. How he'd circumvented the tracker and dodged state-of-the-art security systems.

Peter didn't believe a word of it, but the trap was closing anyway, and with it, Peter's chance to uncover the truth. If they had a full confession from Neal Caffrey, Hughes wouldn't let Peter investigate, not with their current caseload. He'd make Peter hand it off to someone else, someone who'd go through the motions, check the boxes and close the file. And if Neal insisted on taking the fall, no jury on earth would listen while Peter argued otherwise. "Shut _up_, Neal! Let me investigate."

"I'm confessing." Neal had the gall to look hurt. "It doesn't happen every day."

"You're bullshitting me to protect your girlfriend," said Peter, fiercely. "And I'm not going to let you."

"It's not up to you, Peter," said Neal. "And she's not my girlfriend. She's my wife." He stood up and held out his wrists.

With a sinking heart, Peter reached for his handcuffs, and then stopped, cool metal dangling from his fingers. "I can't. Neal, don't make me do this."

"The place is surrounded, right? You caught me." At Peter's nod, Neal gave him a rueful smile. "You always do."

"We can do a deal," said Peter. "You give us Ka—"

"No." Neal reached over and snagged Peter's phone before Peter could stop him. He speed dialed. "Cruz, Peter needs your assistance." He hung up and handed the phone back.

Peter wanted to throw it at the wall, shatter it into a dozen plastic pieces. He knew why Neal had called Cruz instead of Jones. Jones would've turned a blind eye for Peter. Jones understood the score. Cruz, on the other hand, was relentless.

"It's too late," said Neal, his face a mask. "We can't just pretend it didn't happen."

Peter blinked hard, let the phone fall to the counter with the jewelry and looked at the shelves crowded with tinned fruit and fish and a thousand other things, none of them any goddamned use. "Dammit, Caffrey. When did you go and grow up?"

Neal was silent for long enough that Peter dared hope he'd run while Peter wasn't looking. That he'd taken advantage of the lapse and taken off, giving Peter an excuse to investigate, find the real culprit, pin this on Kate.

But Neal let out a breath, closer than he should have been, and said, "I guess I just needed a role model."

And then Cruz was at the door, gun in hand, and there was nothing either of them could do.

 

* * *

 

Stop.

Rewind.

Start over.

 

## The Second Life: This old love has me bound (but the new love cuts deep)

Elizabeth was working at the dining table when Peter got home. He turned the chair next to hers sideways and sat facing her. Then he told her what had happened.

She pushed her laptop aside and listened. "Was it for work?" she asked. "Were you undercover?"

She had her hair loose about her shoulders, and she was wearing an old, oversized blue sweater that used to be Peter's.

"We were drunk." He inched his dining chair closer to hers. "Well, mostly he was drunk. And I know that's no excuse."

She frowned. "You're not gay."

"No, honey, of course not," said Peter. "It's just Neal. He gets under my skin."

"He'd better not," said El, with fire in her eyes. "I know I can trust you, honey, but Neal—he's used to getting what he wants." She stood up, pulled him into her arms.

"Well, he's not getting me," said Peter. "I'm spoken for. That's what I told him."

"You think he'll just accept that?"

"Yeah, I do." Peter squeezed her. "He likes you, and he needs me to keep him out of jail. He won't screw this up, El. He's been a model of propriety up till now. I just caught him off-guard."

Elizabeth nodded thoughtfully. "And there's Kate."

"There's Kate." Peter pulled back to look at her. "So we're okay?"

"We're okay," said Elizabeth. "I love you, Peter Burke. I'm not letting you go that easy."

So Peter spent the weekend telling himself it hadn't meant anything. Neal would get over it, they'd go right back to normal. By Monday morning, he almost believed it.

Still, when the elevator doors opened, he walked into work with some trepidation. He knew Neal well enough to predict his reactions in most situations, but this was new and Neal had pulled some crazy stunts for Kate in the past.

But Neal barely reacted to Peter's arrival. He sat hunched over his desk studying their latest case file, his eyes bloodshot, his black turtleneck emphasizing his pale face.

"Rough weekend?" Jones asked him at the morning meeting.

Peter winced and kept his gaze on his notepad, but Neal's voice was light. "You know what they say: life in the city is one long party."

Jones grinned. "I hope it was a good one—you look like shit."

"He's not wrong," said Cruz, sliding her coffee across the table. "Here—you need this more than I do."

Everyone swiveled to look at her.

"What?" She spread her hands. "It's making me queasy to look at him."

"And moving back to the case at hand," said Peter, refusing to feel jealous of Lauren Cruz. He had no reason to feel jealous and no right.

After the meeting, Neal stopped by Peter's office. "This is going to sound like a strange question, but did you happen to come by June's place Friday night?"

Peter frowned. Was this a test? "No."

"Okay." Neal ducked his head, accepting that without question, and started to turn away.

He honestly didn't remember. Peter kicked himself: he should've taken the rest of the whisky with him when he left. "Exactly how much did you drink?"

"I don't know," said Neal. "It's all a bit of a blur, but there were two glasses on the coffee table, and it wasn't Moz or June."

"Jesus, Neal." Peter placed his pen carefully on the blotter before he snapped it in two. "Do you need to go home?"

Neal hid his surprise badly. "I'm fine. Yesterday was—June was very kind. But I'm fine now, and we have a missing Degas to find."

"Okay." Peter took a deep breath and blew it out silently, forcing himself to focus on the case, on Mrs. Kitchener's victim statement and what needed to be done. "Okay, let's get to work."  
 

* * * * *

  
 

"She's taking the side exit!" Neal sounded muffled over the wire, like he was pulling on his shirt and running at the same time. He probably was.

One week later and Hughes had pulled them off the Degas case to investigate Marybeth Logan, a Pilates instructor who doubled as a Wall Street inside trader, passing stock tips in the women's changing room of the East Village Breath Awareness Center. Neal had gone undercover as a Pilates student in the gym after Cruz refused the assignment on the grounds of back trouble and the potential impairment of her dignity. "I take kick-boxing," she'd said. "Pilates is for hippies and old people."

"Go, go, go!" Peter yelled now, waving Jones to cover the back exit, Cruz to the front. Peter himself hurtled down the side alley toward the entrance, reaching for his gun, arriving at the doorway just in time to be bowled over by a slim, light-haired stockbroker in track pants and running shoes. He grabbed for her ankle as he went down, but she leaped over a pile of trash bags and kept running.

"Cruz, she's heading your way," said Peter, struggling to his feet. "Look sharp—she's slippery." He rubbed his hands on his pants and started after her.

Then Neal careered into him, and they both stumbled over a broken pallet, momentum sending them staggering into the grimy brick wall on the far side of the alley. Neal, flushed and sweaty, slammed into Peter and knocked the breath out of him. The world went into silent slow motion.

A drip rolled from Neal's cheekbone down toward the faint stubble of his jaw. His lips were dry, damp hair curled onto his forehead, and his hand landed on Peter's hip, fingers pressing in. He met Peter's gaze, eyes bright with adrenaline. He was revved from exercising and the chase, and Peter was exquisitely, painfully aware of him, the length of his body, the smell of soap and shampoo and clean sweat, the knowledge that Peter had only to ask and Neal would let him in.

Peter's pulse thudded, making him dizzy.

"Peter, I—" started Neal, low and breathless.

"Neal." Oh God. Peter mustered all the finality he could and interrupted. "Don't."

Neal's lashes dipped, and when he looked up again, the excitement had been wiped away. He stepped back. "Did Cruz get her?"

The moment was gone without a trace, time speeding up again, the city soundscape returning to Peter's ears. They didn't mention it again, neither of them, and Peter might have forgotten it altogether, except that things changed then, subtly and irrevocably. In retrospect, Peter would always think of it as the day—the split second—that Neal accepted nothing was going to happen. The day he gave up hope.  
 

* * * * *

  
 

"Come on, Caffrey. We don't want to be here all night." Peter was sitting in the surveillance van with Cruz and Jones, drinking bad coffee and listening to Neal schmooze his way around the grand opening of an exhibition of Canadian cultural artifacts at the Museum of Natural History. Neal was supposed to be making contact with their Degas suspect, but so far he'd flirted with three waitresses, a waiter and a couple of elderly patrons of the social sciences.

When he finally did talk to a guest under the age of eighty-five, the man had an unplaceable North American accent. Given their suspect was from Oslo, Peter could only roll his eyes and sit through five minutes of small talk about some First Nations masks.

"You're police?" Neal asked the man, who'd introduced himself as Ray.

"I was. Not anymore," said Ray. "Ex-detective, Chicago PD. How'd you know?"

"You stand like someone who's used to wearing a shoulder holster." Peter could easily picture Neal's smile.

"You don't."

"I'm not much of a gun guy," said Neal.

Ray snorted. "Sounds like something my ex would say. Uh, you ever been to Chicago?"

"I've passed through a few times for work," said Neal, conveniently omitting what that work had involved. "What brings you to New York?"

Ray was quiet long enough for Peter to wonder if the sound had cut out. Then he muttered something unintelligible, and Peter was pretty sure there was an exchange happening, over and above the verbal, but all he could do was wait and try to piece it together. Not that he really wanted to. "So, you know, I needed to skedaddle, get a change of scenery."

"I know what you mean," said Neal. "You know, if you want a local guide— No obligation, no strings."

"I'm not, uh. Still picking up the pieces, you know?" But it wasn't a rebuff.

Peter pulled off his headphones and rubbed his face, willing his stomach to stop tying itself in knots.

"Neal, you're supposed to be catching an art thief, not hitting on tourists," he muttered—pointlessly, since Neal was wired to transmit but not receive. Then he looked up. Cruz was staring at him expectantly. "What?"

"Did you know that Caffrey's, uh, flexible?" asked Cruz.

Jones snorted. "He flirts with anything with a pulse."

"Flirts, sure. But in practice?" Cruz scrunched up her face in disappointment.

Peter knew how she felt, more or less, but he could hardly say that, so he sighed and gritted his teeth instead. "Can we get back to work, please? Somewhere out there is a Degas that wants to come home." He put his headphones back on and hunched over his laptop, just in time to hear Neal say,

"I should circulate."

"Right, yeah," said Ray. "See you 'round."

"You've got my number," said Neal. "It'd be a shame not to use it." And he promptly went and located their guy.  
 

* * * * *

  
 

Over the next week or so, Neal wore his hat every day and his flirting escalated to previously unimaginable heights, with everyone but Peter. The change was subtle—maybe enough that no one else noticed—but he seemed more comfortable in his skin than he had in months. It was damned obvious to Peter that he was getting well and truly laid.

Peter ran a background check on "Ray". He told himself it was part of his job as Neal's handler to keep an eye on any new associates, to make sure Neal wasn't getting into trouble, and the only reason he hadn't asked Jones to run the check was to safeguard Neal's privacy.

Ray was Ray Kowalski, retired police detective, recipient of a string of commendations. He'd done some undercover work, and then spent the last twelve years in Canada—which explained the indeterminate accent—and had only just returned to the States. He was a couple of years older than Peter.

The file photo dated back to a cross-border arms deal bust in 1998. Even back then, Kowalski hadn't been pretty like Neal—he was lean and tough-looking, with gray-blond hair that stood up and a slight squint in one eye. And if Peter couldn't fathom what he and Neal might have in common, other than the obvious, well, Peter was Neal's handler, not his matchmaker.

He slammed the file shut and glared at its plain white cover. This was getting out of control. _He_ was getting out of control. Because fine, he and Neal had a history of mutual—his thoughts skittered away from "stalking"—mutual data collection. But they'd kept that side of things more or less professional up till now. Neal might remember Peter's wedding anniversary better than Peter did himself, and Peter might check Neal's monthly credit card statements for hints of misbehavior, but that was no excuse for Peter acting like he literally owned Neal, body and soul.

Peter was in the grip of something like madness or a low-grade fever. Maybe it was love, but if so, it was unwelcome and messed up, and it was propelling him across some serious lines. He had to get over it. He had to stop.

He packed up his briefcase, put on his coat and went home to Elizabeth, and tried to lose himself in playing the perfect husband.

Except that El was too smart not to figure out when something was wrong. "It's good you're home, honey. The kitchen sink's gurgling again," she said when he walked in the door. "How was work?"

"Work? Oh, nothing special. You know." Peter assumed an air of surprise, hating both that he was trying to deceive her and that he was so damned bad at it.

She shook her head, proving his point. "Honey, it's okay. I'm not going to get mad if you say Neal's name. What's going on? Did you find the Degas yet?"

"We know where it is. We're waiting on a search warrant." Their information said the painting was in a safe on the Upper East Side. It wouldn't go anywhere overnight.

"Good for you," said El. She reached up to kiss him and patted his cheek.

Peter followed her upstairs to change out of his suit. Satch was on the landing, gnawing on a rubber bone, and Peter said hi as they went past, then kicked off his shoes in the bedroom and went to hang up his jacket. "Neal met someone while he was undercover last week," he said. "I think they hooked up."

El didn't bother to hide her relief. "It's about time he found someone available," she said. "What's she like?"

"He's a man. An ex-cop." Peter took off his shirt and tie before he added, "And I don't officially know anything about him."

"It's Neal," said El, raising her eyebrows. "Isn't it your job to know?" When Peter didn't answer, she added, "I'm surprised, though. I thought Kate was the love of his life, and now—kissing you, getting together with another man— How does that fit into the picture?"

"Yeah, well—" Peter wasn't sure how this conversation had happened, but he knew he didn't want to be having it in their bedroom. He pulled on jeans and an old t-shirt. "Let's not talk about Neal, honey. I get enough of him at work." He gave her a quick hug. "The kitchen sink, you said?"

El was frowning, but she nodded. "Gurgling again."

"I'll take a look." Peter headed for the door.  
 

* * * * *

  
 

A week later, the Degas safely back in Mrs. Kitchener's living room, another undercover job. Peter walked into the conference room to give Neal the bait—three gold ingots—and found Jones helping Neal adjust the thin Kevlar vest that Peter had ordered him to wear under his clothes, regardless of Neal's grumblings about the lines of his suit.

Peter stopped in the doorway. Neal's shirt was hiked up and his pants were riding low, revealing bruises on his hips. Fingerprints.

Peter glanced up and caught Neal's oblique reaction, his quirked eyebrows a challenge, daring Peter to comment.

Peter dropped the gold bars on the table. "Don't lose them." He turned on his heel and left.  
 

* * * * *

  
 

"You're worried about him," said Elizabeth that night. It was past midnight. In theory they were both asleep.

"El—" Peter rolled over in bed to find her watching him in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

"And you're jealous." El touched just below his ear, let her fingers drift down the side of his neck to his chest. "I think we need to invite them to dinner."

Peter blanched. "I've never met Kowalski. I don't officially know he exists, let alone that he and Neal are involved."

"And not knowing is what's eating away at you," said El. "Honey, if you can't stand to see him happy with someone else, we have a problem." Peter started to protest, but she overrode him, shaking her head. "No, don't even try to play the Kate card. If he's moved on, you can too."

She was offering him an out, pretending he'd bought into the epic love story of Neal and Kate, but Peter didn't have the heart to take it. Three weeks ago, Neal had kissed him. Just one kiss. El was right: it should be ancient history by now.

"El, are we okay?"

Her mouth turned down at the corners. "You tell me."  
 

* * * * *

  
 

"Have you seen the Wyman file?" asked Neal, coming into Peter's office.

"No." Peter looked up from the Bureau's monthly stats. "Neal, I know you're seeing someone. My wife wants to meet him. Bring him to dinner on Friday."

It came out awkward and heavy, but that was okay. Peter wasn't known for his interpersonal eloquence. Even so, Neal's reaction was almost cartoonish: he froze, his eyes widening in alarm. "I'm not— It's not that kind of a thing."

Peter didn't want to get drawn into a discussion about it. "Elizabeth insists."

"How does Elizabeth know about—that I'm—seeing someone?" asked Neal, still more thrown than Peter could remember seeing him.

Peter tried to stare him down, but he could feel his face heating and was far too aware of Neal's body, of the bruises hidden under that hundred-dollar shirt. He looked back down at the monthly stats where they were kicking Organized Crime's butt even harder than last year.

"You're checking up on me again."

"Yep." Peter didn't bother denying it.

Neal shut the door and came over to stand directly in front of him. "Peter, don't do this. Please."

"It's out of my hands." Peter rifled through his top desk drawer, just to have something to do. He seized on a date stamp and shut the drawer again.

Neal was frowning. "He's not a big fan of the FBI."

"Is that what the two of you have in common?" Peter aimed for wry detachment, trying not to mind that they were having an actual conversation about Neal's boyfriend.

Neal's frown deepened. "Peter—"

"Forget it," said Peter. "Friday, seven p.m. Our place. Bring a date."

Neal looked set to argue further, but thankfully, Jones knocked and stuck his head in the door. "Ruiz is here about the Wyman case. He's brought his witness."

Peter nodded and reached for his jacket. "Come on, let's go get this guy."  
 

* * * * *

  
 

Peter was at the top of the stairs when the doorbell rang on Friday. El got there first. "Hi, Neal. And you must be—"

"This is Ray," said Neal quickly. He ushered Kowalski inside and introduced them. "Elizabeth, Peter."

Peter descended the last couple of stairs and came forward to shake Kowalski's hand. He was the same height as Neal, older than his file photo, of course, but still attractive in a grizzled way. Comfortably unshaven, as if that were his natural state. They were both in casual clothes—jeans, shirts. Peter wasn't sure if Neal liked dressing down, or if he was trying to make Kowalski more at ease.

Elizabeth waved them all into the living room, and it was pretty obvious from the way Kowalski angled toward Neal, following his lead, that he had little or no interest in Peter and Elizabeth. This visit was an obligation, like meeting the in-laws.

El excused herself back into the kitchen, and Peter took a deep determined breath. He'd get through this evening, he'd be polite and reasonable, and then he'd erase the whole damned thing from his memory, including the kiss. "Get you a drink?"

"Uh, yeah. Soda," said Kowalski. "Thanks."

Neal bumped shoulders with him. "Me too."

They sat on the couch together, knees and elbows touching, and Peter fought suspicion and swallowed _I'm not your mark_, and said, instead, "Coming right up."

He moved the open bottle of cabernet from the table to the kitchen, pulled a face at El who was chopping broccoli, and poured a couple of glasses of coke. When he went back into the living room, Kowalski's arm was slung along the back of the couch behind Neal, and they were talking quietly. For a moment, Peter felt like he was intruding but didn't know why. Then he caught Neal's smooth-but-tense expression and got it. They weren't just drawn together by couply intimacy; they were united in the face of adversity.

Peter was the adversity.

He sat in the armchair, only then realizing he hadn't got himself a drink. Oh well. He leaned back. "So, Ray, what brings you to New York?"

Kowalski's expression hardened—apparently that was the wrong thing to ask—but he answered plainly enough. "I've been holed up in small-town Canada, in the frozen ass-end of nowhere for ten years. When I left, I wanted to find somewhere I could be, uh, incognito."

"A crowd is usually the best place to hide," Neal agreed.

Peter raised his eyebrows. Hiding was a bad sign, and just because Kowalski was a cop, didn't mean he wasn't a crook too. He had a cocky way about him that Peter associated with people who didn't like authority or rules.

Kowalski looked into his glass and sighed. "I'm getting divorced. Again." He shrugged one shoulder. "How about you? You ever lived anywhere else?"

"Six months in Quantico—that's about it." As he said it, Elizabeth came in with a plate of canapés. It had been Peter's job to circulate those—he'd forgotten—so he jumped up and relieved her of them.

Neal took a cracker smeared with something green and chewed it thoughtfully. "These are excellent, Elizabeth," he said. "Is that cumin?"

"I've no idea." El shot him a quick smile. "One of the benefits of being a good customer is free samples."

Neal smiled back at her, charming and warm, and at that, Peter just about gave up trying to control everything. That smile used to be for him too. It had brightened dull days, enlivened dreary routines and made Peter feel like the center of a small perfect universe. It would almost be worth screwing up all of their lives and letting Neal take him for a ride to hell and back just to be the focus of that smile again.

But that wasn't an option. Neal wasn't an option.

El disappeared back into the kitchen with an apology, and Peter offered the canapés to Kowalski, ate one himself—finding it dry and tasteless—and put the plate on the coffee table. He stayed standing, using his height to loom slightly.

"So, you used to be a cop?" he said, before he could think better of it.

Kowalski looked up, surprised, and narrowed his eyes.

There was nothing to do but brazen it out. The plain truth was that Neal was a felon and Peter was responsible for him. "Museum of Natural History," he said. "The Canadian exhibition opening. Neal was wearing a wire."

Kowalski swiveled to face Neal and jabbed his first and fourth finger into his chest. "That was when we—"

"It's okay," Neal interrupted, and then it was Peter's turn to frown. They were hiding something. Peter thought back to the evening, the conversation. He couldn't remember anything significant.

"You should've told me," said Kowalski, low and pissed.

Neal spread his hands. "I was undercover."

"For two weeks?"

Neal had the grace to drop his hands and look uncomfortable. "You're right. I'm sorry." He shot Peter a dirty look. "Thanks for that."

"Oh, yeah," said Peter, folding his arms and struggling to keep one foot on the moral high ground. "You mislead your boyfriend and it's my fault."

Kowalski was still facing Neal. "He thinks I'm your boyfriend?"

"I told him it's not that kind of thing." Neal put his hand on Kowalski's knee. "It's fine."

"So what kind of a thing is it?" All he could see was Neal gripping Kowalski's knee. He closed his eyes, but that was worse, with the ghost of expensive whisky in his mouth, so he blinked them open again in a hurry.

Neal was scowling. "It's a none of your business kind of thing," he said, standing up to face him. "God, Peter, I try to get some privacy so I can get on with my life—this life inside the lines you keep telling me is so great—and then you trample all over it. You don't trust me. And how do you expect me to carve out some space for myself when you—"

"It's my job," said Peter, stepping closer, glaring at him across the canapés. "It's my job to check up on you."

"Right," said Neal, snapping his mouth closed. "That's all it is." He gave Kowalski a hand up and walked past Peter to the kitchen door, where Elizabeth had just emerged and was standing, pale-faced, wine glass in hand. "We have to go. I'm sorry."

"No, this was my idea." Elizabeth squeezed his forearm. "It's my fault."

"It really isn't," said Neal, leaving Peter in no doubt of who he was blaming. Neal turned to Kowalski and the door, but Peter pushed in front of him, hands on hips, and bodily stopped him from leaving.

"It's my job," he said again, trying to convince himself as well as Neal, and desperately hoping El would believe it too. "I know you, Neal. I know you keep secrets and I know where that leads. And I'll be damned before I see you hook up with someone who's going to tempt you off the straight and narrow. So, if it's not that kind of thing you've got going with Ray here, why don't you save me the trouble of figuring it out. What is it?"

Neal's nostrils flared, his lips curled back, but before he could say anything, Kowalski grabbed Peter by the shoulder, hauled him around and slammed his fist into Peter's face.

Peter vaguely heard Neal swear and El cry out, but something wild broke free in him, fueled by pain and instinct and fury—at Neal, at Kowalski for having Neal, at this whole stupid mess and the feelings Peter couldn't stop, no matter how hard he tried to or how much he wanted to reason them away. He grabbed Kowalski's shirt and punched him in the nose with all his might, and then they were grappling, staggering sideways till they slammed into the wall. Something crashed to the floor—that couldn't be good—and Elizabeth yelled at the top of her voice,

"Stop this right now!"

Peter froze with his arm pulled back, ready for another blow, and Kowalski stopped too. They looked at her, then slowly lowered their arms, let go and stepped back, straightening their clothes. El's grandmother's crystal vase lay in shards on the floor.

But El wasn't looking at the vase. "You," she said, pointing to Peter, then the dining room table, "over there."

He nodded, winced, cupped his throbbing cheek and did what he was told, too flushed with embarrassment, adrenaline and remorse to defend himself. He'd assaulted some guy he'd only just met in his own living room, out of jealousy for someone who wasn't his wife. It was an all-time low.

"And you," said El, glaring at Kowalski, "on the couch."

"Yes, ma'am." Kowalski cracked his neck and sat down, muttering something inaudible about his ex-wife.

"What about me?" Neal asked Elizabeth.

"Go into the kitchen and get a steak off the counter," she said. "Ray, you're bleeding. Neal, bring a towel, too!"

She was ignoring Peter, but that was more of a reprieve than anything else, considering. Kowalski put his head back and held a wadded up handkerchief to his nose. Neal came in with his hands full, gave El the meat on a plate and took the towel to Kowalski. He sat on the couch and didn't look at Peter either.

El brought the steak over to Peter. "Here, we were going to eat these, but you might as well put it on your face."

"El." Peter caught her wrist. "I'm sorry."

"We'll talk about it later," she said, firmly.

"I'm not sorry," said Kowalski, unexpectedly. "I needed that. I've been dying to punch someone's sanctimonious nuthole in, and it if couldn't be my ex, then—" He pressed his lips together and blinked at Peter above the towel. "Sorry you got in the way, though. No hard feelings?"

"Okay." That was far more than Peter deserved. "I'm sorry too."

Neal leaned forward and buried his head in his hands. "God, this is fucked up."

El perched on the arm of the empty armchair and looked around the room. Her gaze passed over the broken vase and came to rest on Peter. "Tell me about it!"  
 

* * * * *

  
 

The others left, and El sent Peter for a walk around the block with Satchmo. When he came back, he found her crying in the bathroom.

The evening had been a disaster, but it was still shocking to see Elizabeth in tears. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her cry over anything more than a book or a girl's night movie. Now she was curled on the bathroom floor in sweatpants and a t-shirt, hair a mess, face red, _sobbing_.

"What can I do?" Peter asked at once, going to her, trying to hold her.

She pushed him away and wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands. "Fix this," she said. "I'm taking Satch to stay with Lynn and Michael for a week. I need you to do whatever it takes to fix this—get it out of your system, or whatever. I don't care. I don't—" She gulped. "I don't want to know."

"Don't go." Peter sat on the edge of the bathtub. His face still ached from the fight, but he hardly noticed, too terrified that she might not come back, terrified of what he might do. "Please, honey. I'll make it work."

"I have to." She knelt up and took his hands. "I can't—I feel like I'm losing my mind. I don't know who you are anymore." Before he knew what she was doing, she slipped his wedding ring from his finger. "I'll be back in a week, and you can have this back then. If you still want it. But I can't stand being second best with you."

"Don't think that for a second," he said. "El, I love you."

She sniffed inelegantly and gave him a watery, pleading look. "Then fix this."  
 

* * * * *

  
 

They made love that night and it nearly broke Peter's heart. El was leaving him. How had they ended up here? He wanted to blame Neal, but he couldn't: this was Peter's weakness, his fault.

El clung to him, but every time she saw the bruise on his face, her eyes clouded.

The next day she packed a suitcase and even Satchmo was mournful and subdued. "I'll see you in a week," El said, and Peter kissed her through the open car window.

"One week."

The house was too quiet, even with the tv on. Peter went in to work, though it was Saturday and there weren't many people around there either. He poured himself the dregs of yesterday's coffee and pulled up the transcripts from the Museum of Natural History stakeout. Neal and Kowalski had been hiding something. Peter needed to know what.

> FBI CONSULTANT NEAL CAFFREY: They're beautifully done.  
>  "RAY": They're  
>  FBI CONSULTANT NEAL CAFFREY: I know. They have a complicated history.  
>  "RAY": Right. You know, I heard.  
>  FBI CONSULTANT NEAL CAFFREY: Two masks, confiscated from the Tsimshian people by an Anglican priest in 1879 and sold separately to the French and Canadian governments. Kept far apart for all those years. It's good that they're back together now.  
>  "RAY": Yeah.

Peter frowned as a suspicion started to form. _They're beautifully done,_ Neal had said. That was a clue. Neal wouldn't say that about a real piece; he'd say _They're beautiful. Beautifully done_ was an appreciation of a different kind of craft. Neal was admiring a forger's work.

On a hunch, Peter pulled the audio and listened to it twice through, his certainty growing. Kowalski's _I heard_ wasn't a complete statement. He'd left a lengthy pause before he said it, and then—Peter couldn't say why—he'd been about to say something revealing. Something Neal didn't want picked up on the wire. That was why Neal had rambled on about the history of the masks. It was misdirection for Peter's benefit.

"Dammit, Neal." Peter checked Neal's tracker to make sure he was home, gulped down the rest of the execrable coffee and headed for the door.  
 

* * * * *

  
 

Neal opened the door a crack and Peter barged in. "The masks are forged."

The surprise on Neal's face turned to polite interest. "What masks? Your eye looks terrible, Peter. Did you put some ice on it?"

Peter ignored him. "The Tsimshian masks from the Canadian exhibition. Hand-carved basalt over 1000 years old, except that they're fakes." He looked around to see if Kowalski was here, only then realizing what he could have walked in on. God.

Luckily, Neal was alone. He was wearing a blue t-shirt, gray sweats and a fine sheen of perspiration, and he was holding two hand weights in one hand, which he put on the floor behind the couch. He looked exhausted—even worse than when he'd been deathly hung over—but he was playing the role of Peter's respectful indentured felon anyway. Keeping Peter at a safe distance. "Did you have them tested?"

Right. The masks. Peter shook his head to focus. "I didn't need to—I listened to the transcript. Did Kowalski do it or was it you?"

Neal stared at him, frustration showing through, then faked a laugh. "I didn't do anything." He went to put the kettle on.

Peter followed him. "Neal."

A slanted glance, a hesitation and Neal caved. "Okay, maybe I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy who hypothetically might have replaced them with copies," he said. "Maybe. But everyone's happy now. The Tsimshian have their masks back, and the Canadian and French governments—who bought them even though they were stolen, remember—aren't any the wiser. Why would you stir this up?"

"Because they're fakes," said Peter, refusing to be distracted either by the aroma of expensive freshly ground coffee or by Neal's admission, so obviously calculated to disarm him. Or by the way his throat moved when he spoke. "Where's Kowalski?"

"Ray's gone back to Canada." Neal put the French press on the counter next to the red tin of coffee grounds and turned to face Peter, leaning his hip against the kitchen cupboards. "Apparently he just needed to punch someone in the head."

He said it without rancor, but Peter flushed anyway. "I'm sorry."

"No, you're not."

"You're right. I'm not. Not that he's gone. I'm sorry about—other stuff. I've been a jackass." Peter stepped back, shucked off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair, wishing there was the slightest chance Neal had beer in his fridge.

And as if Neal could read his mind, he went to the fridge, dug out a Molson and handed it to Peter without a word. Forgiveness in a bottle.

"Thanks." Peter flicked the bottle cap into the sink and took a grateful mouthful. "Are you okay?"

Neal shrugged and turned back to the coffee. "It wasn't that kind of a thing."

"So you keep saying." Peter studied Neal's shoulders, tension evident in every movement. "Neal—"

"Please don't." Neal poured a cup of coffee and stirred in sugar. The table was bare except for a couple of maps of New York and a stack of DVDs, which Neal moved aside before he sat down. "Why are you here?"

"The masks," said Peter, but they didn't seem important anymore. Nothing was important except getting back the warmth that suffused everything when he and Neal were right with each other. Peter rubbed his eyes gingerly, careful of the bruise. "El's gone upstate to stay with her sister."

"That can't be good." Neal put down his coffee mug, and the politeness fell away. "You're not wearing your wedding ring. Is everything all right?"

"Not even close," said Peter. He picked at the label on the beer bottle until he could speak again. "What kind of a thing is it, with you and Kowalski?"

"It's nothing shady. He's as law-abiding as you are." Neal was watching Peter's hands working the label. He took a drink of coffee and sighed. "It was a rebound thing for both of us. Nothing serious, just—easy, uncomplicated."

Peter's hands stilled despite himself. Condensation was cool against his thumb. "You want to know what El said before she left?"

"Not really."

Neal was still looking at the damned beer bottle. He was treading carefully and that, more than his words, caught at Peter's breath. Neal relaxed during cons. He enjoyed them. He got a hectic light in his eyes when he was dancing with the truth. Here, now, was more like when Peter had met with him in prison, when Neal had been reasonable and persuasive, and utterly desperate underneath.

This mattered.

Neal should know that it mattered to Peter too.

"She said to fix it," said Peter. "She said, 'I don't care how. Get it out of your system.'"

Neal's gaze flew to meet his, comprehension and connection like a physical jolt in the pit of Peter's stomach.

"Even smart people have dumb ideas," Neal said slowly.

Peter hunched forward. "I'm a smart guy, and I have _no_ ideas. No idea how to stop being—I—" He cast the beer bottle aside and clasped his hands together, fingertips cold from the chilled glass. He shouldn't say this—it would only make things worse—but he couldn't stop himself. "I'm in love with you, and I wish to hell I wasn't. I don't do this—I don't know how to do this. So you tell me, what do I do?"

"Simple." Neal seemed perfectly serious. "Send me back to prison. Get over it."

Peter snorted, snagged the bottle again and stood up. He needed to move. He paced the room. "You remember that night you got drunk? Single malt whisky, two glasses on the coffee table."

Neal's eyes narrowed. "It was you."

"It was me." Peter came to a halt, remembering the events of that night. "We kissed, and we both agreed to pretend it never happened, and I should've taken the bottle with me when I left, but I didn't, because I'm an idiot. And then you didn't remember, and I should've been able to forget about it too, just let it go." He waved his hand to illustrate and knocked a photo frame off an end table. June and Byron in their youth, laughing at the camera.

"All this time, you knew. That's hardly fair, Peter."

"It hasn't made it any easier, believe me." Peter drank the last mouthful of beer and left the bottle on the bookcase next to Kate's bordeaux bottle. It seemed apt. He'd said his piece and now he should go.

He turned to face Neal, who was unexpectedly closer, standing only a few feet away.

"Not knowing wasn't exactly a picnic, either," said Neal, raising his chin. The dark smudges under his eyes emphasized his point. "So, now what?"

Peter shook his head. "I'm married. And I'm responsible for you."

"With all due respect to Elizabeth and the Justice Department, I don't care." Neal took a step forward.

Peter held him off with a hand on his chest, aware of the heat of his body, the rapid thud of his heart. Peter swallowed. "El comes back at the end of the week, and I can't—I won't cheat on her."

"I wouldn't expect you to." Neal wrapped his fingers around Peter's wrist and pulled it down so he could step closer. "Until then you have a pass, right? _Carp—_"

Peter raised his free hand to stop the platitude and managed an awkward half-smile. "You know that if you quote _Dead Poets Society_, I am walking out that door right now."

Before Neal could answer, Peter leaned in. If their first kiss had been hard and bitter, fuelled with alcohol and frustration, this was the diametric opposite. Neal's lips were soft, warm, briefly dry. They parted under Peter's and let him in, and Peter licked into his mouth, sucking gently on his tongue, tasting salt-sweat and coffee. Neal clasped the side of Peter's neck and pulled away to say breathlessly, "You know that the original quotation is from Horace, not Robin Williams. _Carpe diem quam minime credula postero_."

"Shut up," said Peter and took him by the hips, lining them up and, in the process, forfeiting all rational thought and control. The hard press of Neal's cock through their clothes made him dizzy—this was Neal, his body fit and sensual, his tastes extravagant. He'd been around the world, partied with royalty, stolen untold priceless treasures, and after all that, he wanted Peter. It seemed impossible. Peter shifted against him, not giving either of them room for second thoughts, and Neal met his mouth hungrily and took over until Peter ached and the world accelerated into madness.

"This isn't going to fix a single damned thing," Peter muttered to himself, his hands moving of their own accord to Neal's ass so he could tug him even closer.

"Shut up. I have a plan." Neal was already working on Peter's clothes. "God, you drive me crazy. I've wanted you forever." His fingers were under the hem of Peter's shirt, dragging greedily up his spine and across his skin. Peter groaned and covered his mouth again, threaded his hands into Neal's hair—short and thick, so different from El's—and concentrated on every sensation, every taste and scent. Neal shoved him against the bookcase and leaned in hard, and Peter felt the balance tip for both of them, from reckless making out to urgent, needy sex.

From the way Neal touched him, Peter had no doubt that he'd done this many times before, but there was a tremor in his hands that gave Peter hope, reassured him that this was something special. Without breaking the kiss, Neal guided him across the room until Peter was backed up against the bed—about the same time Neal pushed past the waistbands of Peter's pants and briefs, and squeezed his bare ass. "Can I?"

Peter didn't know exactly what he was asking and was well out of his depth. He pulled Neal down with him onto the unmade bed. "Seduce me."

"Peter." Neal pinned him to the mattress and searched his face with such intensity that Peter had to close his eyes and wrestle him down. Neal's body landed heavy and hot on Peter, from chest to knee, shocking his breath away.

The next thing he knew, they were rolling onto their sides, tugging at each other's pants, desperately trying to get to skin. If they could only have this for a week, Peter needed it now, everything he could get.

The bed was soft and yielding, and nothing beyond it mattered. There was no room for reality or reason. Self-consciousness was beyond him at this point, and if he was graceless, well, Neal already knew that about him. Neal knew who he was.

Neal slowed things down again once they were naked, taking time to work Peter open until he was shivering and pushing down urgently, nervous but unable to help himself. Neal murmured nonsense across his skin, into the hollow of his back, and Peter kept getting distracted, needing to pull Neal up, over and over, so he could kiss him. It was messy and stop-start, and Peter could have gone on like that forever, until Neal did something—Peter had no idea what he was doing down there, just that it felt incredible despite the burn—and Peter started babbling, begging him to do it, to fuck him, now.

"All right, okay, I'm on it," Neal murmured in his ear, a smile in his voice. He licked down Peter's neck leaving a wet, air-cool stripe, and knelt back to put on a condom, and Peter twisted to watch, relieved to see honest desire on his face, no sign of condescension or triumph. Neal caught his eye. "Okay?"

"Yeah. I—" _Love you._ He'd already said it once. No point wearing the words out, or making Neal feel awkward if he didn't reciprocate. Peter lay down again, and the next thing he knew, Neal was right behind him, pushing in painfully slowly, his body radiating heat, his open mouth on Peter's shoulder. His hand was tight on Peter's hip, and Peter was grateful for that because there was a moment when he thought he might implode or dissolve or even cry. It was too much—the pleasure-pain of Neal rocking into him; Neal holding him, his practiced hand sliding around to stroke Peter's cock; Neal's scent, his bed, his body, the aroma of Italian roast, being naked with someone who wasn't Elizabeth, fucking in someone else's house in a room without a lock—

Peter closed his eyes and focused on Neal.

But Neal had stopped moving. "You're freaking out."

"Yeah." Peter should have known he couldn't hide it. They knew each other too well. "Give me a minute."

Neal pulled out, which wasn't what Peter had meant, but it was too late now. Peter sat up on the edge of the bed, wincing, and bowed his head, trying to convince himself he wasn't just making things worse for everyone.

"We don't have to do this," said Neal from behind him.

Peter reached back and clasped his leg, just above the tracker. "I know."

Neal's leg shifted and the mattress tilted, and then he was sitting beside Peter, matter-of-factly disposing of the condom and not looking at him. "Do you want to leave?"

"Do you want me to?" Peter wasn't sure if his voice was hoarse from fear or relief.

Neal looked up then. His hair was a mess. There was a crease between his eyebrows. He put his hand on Peter's cheek and brought their mouths together, his lips soft and quiet. "Stupid."

Peter huffed a laugh, then got serious again. "It wasn't that it wasn't good," he said. "I was just—"

"—thinking too much," Neal finished for him, and that wasn't quite right either, but it was close enough. Peter nodded, and Neal said, "I should have realized you'd need to watch. Come here."

So they lay down again, facing each other this time, and started again, arms loose around each other, kissing, until momentum took hold and they started moving, rolling over, hands everywhere. Peter feasted himself on Neal's throat, on his chest, and then Neal hooked his foot around Peter's ankle and brought him close, and they thrust together raggedly. It wasn't athletic or smooth, but it was better now Peter could feel Neal with him. Neal's hips twisted, seeking, and Peter forced his hand between them and ran his fingers along Neal's cock for the first time. It was heavy and hard, and it throbbed for him. Neal gasped and closed his eyes, and murmured something in Latin.

"Huh?" Peter pulled back and raised his eyebrows, fascinated by Neal's lips, sensitive and ripe. By how thoroughly undone he was, how responsive and needy.

Neal flung his arm around Peter's neck to bring his mouth back and rode his fist, thrusting hard, but he repeated himself. "_Carpe v-verpam._"

"_Verpam_?" Peter frowned through his lust haze. "Seize the wasp?"

"Cock," said Neal, laughing breathlessly. "You're thinking _vespa_. Oh God, Peter, I never—" His arm tightened and he shuddered, his thrusts stuttering, and came hot in Peter's hand.

Peter's heart was pounding, every muscle in his body tight. He pressed his face to Neal's hair, inhaling sweat and sex and shampoo, and rubbed off against Neal's hip, fast and fumbling until his need sharpened and overwhelmed him, and he spilled onto Neal and the sheets, giving up every last semblance of control.  
 

* * * * *

  
 

Peter dreamed of Elizabeth, of looking in every closet in their house, calling and not being able to find her, and Satchmo running worried circles around his feet. He woke to a twilit room, pale sheets made gray by the city lights and Neal propped up on one elbow, watching him. He still looked tired.

"How long have you been watching me?" Peter asked. "It's creepy." But he couldn't get the tone right, his bark undermined by Neal dipping his head to bite gently at his collarbone.

"Anyone ever tell you you talk in your sleep?" Neal asked and licked away the sting before Peter could complain about it.

Peter rubbed his eyes, careful of his bruise. "What did I say?"

Neal's gaze dropped, his lashes dark against his cheeks. "It didn't make a whole lot of sense." He pressed his lips to Peter's mouth and then stretched out next to him like a cat, inviting his touch. It would've taken a stronger man than Peter to resist that temptation.

They barely left the bed for the rest of the weekend. June kept a tactful distance—Peter wasn't so blind he thought she didn't know—and the everyday sounds of the household were faint and unimportant. Peter and Neal slept and fucked and staggered to the bathroom or the kitchen, and then fucked again. And none of it was the kind of gourmet sex Neal was probably used to, but it was real and it was good. After that first time, Peter relaxed, sinking into the irresponsible, irresistible moment, and learned Neal again, not with surveillance equipment this time, but with his hands and mouth. Their connection tightened and pulled, and it was all moving far too fast.

He had no idea what he'd do when El came back. He needed them both: El for sanity—she was his conscience and his partner; she made him a better man—and Neal for the spark and challenge, the parry and thrust. And this new hedonism that was like coming alive.

At Sunday lunchtime Neal made a foray down to June's kitchen and came back with a tray of fresh fruit, and they sprawled off the side of the bed, their heads hanging over the edge, and ate slices of fresh mango and papaya and pineapple with their fingers, the juices sticky, pungent, sweet.

"I saw what you did there," said Peter, after Neal gave him a bowl of pomegranate seeds and cajoled him into tasting them. "You know it won't work."

"I know." Neal looked away, teasing trailing off.

Peter put down the bowl and turned to face him. "I'm sorry. I wish there was a way." He pressed his lips together, then blew out a frustrated breath, impatient with himself. "I don't know how to do this."

"I told you," said Neal, reaching for a piece of pineapple. "I have a plan."

"Really?" Peter elbowed him in the ribs. "I thought that was just a line to get me into bed."

A smile tugged at his lips. "It worked."

"Tell me about this plan of yours." Peter took a bite of mango.

Neal shook his head. "Not yet." He licked his fingers clean, then sat up and raked his fingernails over Peter's chest.

Peter caught his hand. "Does it involve me putting you back in prison?"

"Peter—"

"Because I can't." Peter didn't want to face the future yet, but he had to say at least this. "Not if it's because— Not because of this. I can't, Neal."

Neal dragged him onto his back and knelt over him. "Peter, it's okay." Tenderness was written all over his face, and Peter fell further.

"I—" _Love you._

"It'll be okay," said Neal. "Trust me." And then they were stroking and licking, making love. Peter hadn't had this kind of intense chemistry with El in years, and he knew it was mostly novelty that was making his nerves sing, that given time, he'd learn to take Neal for granted too, but knowing that didn't make the feelings any less powerful or heady, as if this was the first time and the last.  
 

* * * * *

  
 

On Monday, Peter made a point of working in the field. He didn't want to deal with the office, or have to hide his and Neal's new intimacy in a professional setting. He was too raw, too mixed up and uncertain, and his team would pick up on that in a second, not to mention Hughes. So he drove Neal around New York instead, interviewing witnesses and tracking down twenty thousand dollars worth of gold leaf that had been stolen from a church restoration in Missouri.

Most of the people they talked to looked askance at Peter's black eye, so after the first couple of interviews, he hung back, letting Neal do the heavy lifting. It was a different dynamic, more like partners than they'd ever been before. Peter loved it, loved seeing Neal manage witnesses and give their suspect just enough rope to hang himself. He could tell Neal was riding high.

But they couldn't keep this up. He couldn't avoid the Bureau for more than a couple of days, and Neal couldn't take liberties in the office like he was taking now—dragging Peter into an alley to kiss him, making every glance a proposition. Peter couldn't stay hidden away in June's spare room, hoping that his life would take care of itself, either. It was his life: he needed to make a decision. Which meant he needed to find a way to go back to being a friend-mentor-partner to Neal, to strip out the deeper emotions that colored their interactions—and Peter's life and the whole damned city—and to do that while hurting Neal as little as humanly possible.

Peter had never been so reluctant or ill-equipped for a task.

Neal looked across the car at him, reached out and brushed his thumb down the back of Peter's neck. "Your bruise is fading."

Peter arched into his touch. "I'd forgotten about it."  
 

* * * * *

  
 

He woke early on Tuesday morning. The room was dull. Rain pattered on the skylight and late fall put a chill in the air, even here in the lap of luxury.

Neal wasn't lying next to him. He wasn't at the table or on the couch. The sheets on his side of the bed were cold. Peter listened for signs of life from the bathroom—nothing.

"Something is wrong with this picture," Peter said out loud. He shook off drowsiness and reached for his clothes. He was up and gulping down a glass of water before he missed his phone. He couldn't find it in any of his pockets, not on the nightstand or behind the nightstand. They hadn't knocked it under the bed in the heat of the moment.

Caught between anger and panic, Peter took a deep breath and made himself methodically scan the room. There'd be a clue here somewhere—or else Neal would walk in with fresh bagels and lox, and Peter would feel stupid for jumping to conclusions.

It was too soon to panic.

The worm in their apple was no secret. They'd both known that something would have to give. But it was too soon to panic.

Nothing in the kitchenette. The table was littered with last night's takeout—was that a clue? No, Neal was as much of a slob as any other guy when sex was on the line. There was a volume of Horace's writings in translation on the coffee table. What had Neal said? _Carpe diem_ something. A scrap of paper marked the page, and the quote stared him in the face, telling him what he already knew: _Carpe diem quam minime credula postero. _Seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the future.

Neal had known all along.

Was it still too soon to panic? Peter went to the bookcase and checked every shelf, and there it was, next to the bordeaux bottle and Peter's beer bottle: Neal's cellphone.

Peter picked it up, already knowing it would be empty. He powered it on, and the screen stared blankly back at him. The address book was cleaned out, no message history, no call history, nothing.

Peter turned it over—on its back in metallic silver pen, Neal had written: _It's been real. xxx_

It was a sucker punch. Peter sank onto the couch, gripping the phone, trying to think. Had Neal been faking all this time? It was definitely time to panic, but—maybe the message wasn't meant for him.

Yeah, right. That was clutching at straws. But _something_ wasn't right. First off, Neal wasn't mean. Secondly, he'd never leave a simple message if he had the choice of using a code. Peter read the words again: _It's been real. xxx_

The truth clicked into place: it had been real—really real—and now it was over, finished, done.

This was all Peter's fault: he never should have messed with their relationship; he never should have put Neal in this position, competing with Elizabeth; he should have goddamned _listened_ when Neal said he had a plan that first day—Saturday.

Saturday, and it was Tuesday morning. Not even three whole days together, and now there was every chance Peter would never see him again.

Because, yeah, Neal had a plan, and now Peter had the outline of it, he could fill in the gaps easily enough: Neal had vanished and there'd be no trace, no telling clues at crimes scenes, no European rumors. Neal had _vanished_ so that Peter wouldn't have to choose. Perhaps more to the point, so Neal wouldn't have to live with Peter's choice.

Peter fought a lingering suspicion that maybe it had been one big con from the first prison escape onward. Had Neal been playing Peter all this time, to this end? Peter didn't want to think it—it hurt his pride as much as his heart—but he found some bitter comfort in the idea too. Better to imagine Neal roaming free, full of triumph and swagger, than to picture him adrift and unhappy. Better to believe that finding him would lead to humiliation and rebuff.  
 

* * * * *

  
 

"What happened to your face?" asked Jones when Peter hurried into the office half an hour later.

"What? Oh, a misunderstanding." Peter's fight with Kowalski seemed a lifetime ago. "Some guy from Chicago with a bee in his bonnet. Where's Neal?"

Jones raised his eyebrows. "You don't know?"

Hope flared, hot and brilliant, but it didn't last long.

"His tracker cut out at Grand Central Station late last night," said Jones. "The Marshals office said they called you and you told them it was okay, he was with you."

Peter pressed his lips together until he could speak. "Neal stole my phone."

Jones' gaze sharpened, and Peter hated to think what was showing on his face that made Jones look at him like that. "I'm sorry, Peter. We'll find him."

"No," said Peter. "We won't."

And they didn't. Neal had disappeared. ERT got nothing off his phone, Haversham—once Peter tracked him down—gave a convincing display of indignant innocence, Kate was still in the city and also claimed she hadn't heard anything, ditto June, and that was it. No leads. Nothing.

Peter went through the necessary motions, hating every minute of it, feeling like he'd lost a limb or a hemisphere of his brain. At lunchtime on Thursday he took a thirty-page report into Hughes' office, explaining why they'd be wasting time and resources if they tried to hunt Caffrey down. "He knows us too well. We won't even get close."

"I'll take that under advisement," said Hughes, "at least until the inevitable crime spree starts."

"It won't," said Peter. "Listen, I need to—Elizabeth's staying with her sister upstate. I need to go get her."

Hughes leaned back in his chair, his gaze flicking to Peter's bare left hand. "Take the afternoon."

Peter nodded and headed for the door.

"Peter."

Peter turned back and waited, wondering if his reputation and his career were about to fall apart, on top of the flat gray loss that was Neal's absence.

Hughes steepled his fingers. "You're taking this whole business remarkably calmly. Tell me you didn't do anything to encourage Caffrey to run. Tell me you didn't help him."

"I didn't," said Peter.

Hughes' gaze was piercing. "Did you know?"

Peter straightened his shoulders, but it was a fair question under the circumstances. He told the truth. "I may have missed some clues," he said, "but if I'd known, I would have stopped him."

Hughes nodded, satisfied. "Get out of here."  
 

* * * * *

  
 

Peter ran a couple of errands and then took a train north. The journey gave him a chance to unwind and think about things. His weekend with Neal already seemed like a dream, and although he missed Neal like crazy, he wasn't the first guy to have an affair and have it end. The pain would pass—he knew this intellectually, even if it seemed impossible right now—and he was lucky to have a good marriage that, he hoped and prayed, could be salvaged.

His taxi pulled up at the curb outside Lynn and Michael's house at four-thirty, and he paid the driver and got out. Satchmo ran down the path to greet him, and El followed more slowly, a minute later. The sight of both of them made Peter's heart ache—he'd screwed up so badly he'd nearly lost his family.

Under his breath, to Neal who could be anywhere by now, whose disappearance had given Peter a second chance at this, he said, "Thank you."

And then Satchmo was leaning his whole weight against Peter's legs and Elizabeth was right there, too, looking at him with mixed hope and doubt.

"I couldn't stay away," said Peter. He put his arms around her because he needed to, she was his home. She hugged him back.

"I missed you." She pulled back and studied him, reached up to touch his bruised eye. "You fixed it."

"Not exactly, but it's fixed." Peter tightened his hold on her. Sugar-coating it felt dishonest, so he added, "Neal ran."

Her mouth turned down, displaying far more sympathy than Peter deserved. "Are you going to find him?"

Peter shook his head. "It's best this way."

"And Hughes is okay with that?"

"He is," said Peter. "My days of haring around the country after Neal Caffrey are over. I'm all yours." And he meant it. Lynn was standing on the porch looking down at them, her hands on her hips, protective of her little sister, but Peter had learned his lesson. He'd be a total idiot to pass up El for anyone—even Neal.

Still in the circle of his arms, she dug into the pocket of her jeans and held out her fist. Peter tapped it, and when she opened it, he took his ring from her palm and slid it onto his finger where it belonged.

"Oh, another thing," said Peter. He pulled a slip of paper from his jacket and handed it to her. It was a small thing, but he hoped it would be enough.

El read the receipt and blinked up at him. "Salsa classes? Whose idea was that?"

"It was my idea. You've been wanting us to do something together for years now. This seemed like something—I thought you'd like it. Twelve Wednesday nights," said Peter, and bent to kiss her. She smelled of cinnamon. "I love you."

"Oh, honey." El squeezed him tight. "I just need to get my things. Come in and have a cup of coffee with Lynn and Michael, and then we can go home." She kissed him, cupping his face in her hands, and for the first time since Tuesday morning, Peter believed in a future, around the corner, out of sight but not too far out of reach, where everything would be okay.

 

* * *

 

Stop.

Rewind.

Start over.

 

## The Third Life: On my way to believing

Elizabeth arched one eyebrow when Peter told her about the kiss, later that night. She'd been at a product launch for one of her corporate clients, and she'd just walked in the door. "Oh really," she said.

"We were drunk," said Peter. "It was an accident. It won't happen again."

Her second eyebrow joined the first. "Uh-huh."

"I promise," said Peter, taking her hands.

She squeezed his fingers, then dropped them so she could take off her coat. "Okay."

He waited. "That's it?"

"What were you hoping for?" asked El. She sounded distracted and tired, but at least she wasn't mad. Peter made them both hot chocolate and told himself to be grateful for small mercies.  
 

* * * * *

  
 

The next day on the way to the dog park with Satchmo, El looked across the car and said, "Honey, remember back when we first met and Wendy was going out with that guy, what was his name?"

"Wendy?" Peter slowed down at the traffic lights.

"My roommate. I can't remember the guy's name, though." Elizabeth's forehead creased as she tried with no luck to remember the name of someone they'd met half a dozen times twelve years ago. She gave up and shrugged. "But remember? She found out he was seeing her friend Carol at the same time?"

It rang vague bells. Peter nodded encouragingly, and turned left into the dog park's gravel parking lot.

"And I said maybe they should just have a threesome, if they all liked each other, and you said liking isn't the same as attraction, and the reason threesomes are so rare is because the chances of finding someone you're both attracted to, who's also attracted to both of you, are tiny."

Peter would have sworn he'd never discussed threesomes with his wife. He must have been trying to impress her by sounding cool and sophisticated. He parked next to an SUV. "So?"

"So, Neal," said Elizabeth.

Peter turned off the ignition and turned to her. He couldn't be hearing her right. "You want to have a threesome with Neal?"

She smiled, the corners of her mouth tucking down in amusement. "I'm just saying."

"Saying what?" asked Peter. "Something's missing? You're not happy?"

Satchmo barked through the window at a pair of Dalmatians getting out of the SUV, but Peter and Elizabeth ignored him.

El reached over and kissed Peter. "I'm saying," she said softly. "I'm saying I'm open to the idea. I mean, how often do we find someone who we'd both—" She winked. "You know."

Peter turned back to the steering wheel and covered his eyes. "Honey, he's a convict and a conman, and he will take every advantage he can and use it. We can't trust him."

"We already do," she said, but he refused to listen, because letting himself want Neal Caffrey would be an exercise in pure masochism.

"I'm responsible for him. It would be a gross breach of trust to do anything behind Hughes' back, and there's no way he'd condone it if I told him, even if I could bring myself to—" The idea of talking about his feelings with Hughes was appalling. Peter dropped his hands and looked at her pleadingly. "Don't even think about it."

She gave a small sigh. "Okay, okay. I never mentioned it." She waited until they were out of the car and walking toward the stand of pine trees near the pond. "But if anything does happen, it's okay with me, so long as I'm in on it. If you can find a way to work it out with your conscience, I think it'd be fun."

"Fun," groaned Peter. "It would be a disaster."

She grinned. "You just keep telling yourself that, honey."  
 

* * * * *

  
 

But on Monday morning there was no time to tell himself anything, because there was the Le Joyau case, and the overwhelming likelihood that Neal had in fact stolen the diamond. He goofed around at the store, flirted outrageously with the models, fawned over Tulane, and all the time probably knew the exact location of the jewel.

Peter couldn't believe he'd considered, even for a second, getting involved with the guy.

Of course, he understood why Neal had done it: he was taking Peter's rejection like a child, acting out, showing off. Call it what you might, it was exactly what Peter should have predicted. Peter wanted to strangle him for it, but all he could do was try to muscle OPR out of the way and deal with Neal himself. Because it was, ultimately, all Peter's fault. He'd let it go too far. He should have noticed what was going on and shut Neal down weeks ago.

Anyway, it was his job to look out for Neal. If anyone could straighten the kid out and get him back in line, it was Peter. And if anyone could give Peter a heart attack, it was Neal, jumping four stories onto a flimsy awning. Peter was so relieved to see him survive the stunt, he didn't even try to stop him from getting away.

But when Neal needed a sympathetic ear, he didn't go running to Peter. No, he ran to Peter's wife.

El put on a convincing show of contrition while Neal was there, at least. After he'd gone—having ninety-nine percent persuaded Peter he was innocent—she burst into peals of laughter. "Oh, honey, you should have seen your face. Only Neal could flirt by turning himself in for a crime he didn't commit, and only you would fall for it."

"It looked like you fell for it, too," Peter pointed out in his own defense. They were in the bathroom getting ready for bed. The phone Neal had given him was on the dresser in the bedroom, and Peter was refusing to let himself consider whether to use it. He was too busy dealing with the fact that he'd let a wanted fugitive just stroll on out of his house.

El grinned. "Maybe a little. I like it when he flirts with me. Is that so bad?"

Peter brushed his teeth and rinsed out his mouth. "He flirts with everyone," he said. "You should have seen him at that fancy boutique. He had his nose buried in a model's cleavage within minutes."

El patted his shoulder. "He was probably trying to make you jealous."

"He was barely aware anyone else was in the room." Peter followed her into the bedroom and slid into his side of the bed. "You can't trust him."

Elizabeth sat sideways on her side, facing him. "Honey, Neal is a flirt," she said. "It doesn't mean anything. It's just who he is."

"So how do we know it means anything when he flirts with us?" asked Peter. "I'm not buying it. He uses his sex appeal to get his way. That's all this is."

"It's working," said El wryly.

Peter shook his head. "He's still in love with Kate. Every move he makes, it's all about her."

El pulled the tie from her hair, shook it loose and got into bed. She cuddled up to him. "Only because he doesn't know he has other options."

"I don't think love works like that, El." Peter pulled her close and ran his hands over her curves. "Anyway, maybe I like having you to myself. I'm not sure I can handle the kind of competition Neal Caffrey might provide."

She gleamed up at him wickedly and arched against him. "Oh, you can handle it. Trust me."  
 

* * * * *

  
 

The next day, Peter called Neal and they went back to Le Joyau, found the thief's escape route through the old Prohibition tunnel, and took the surveillance tape to Peter's place. Peter paid attention through all of it, not just to the crime but to how Neal behaved with him, and El was right. Neal didn't treat Peter like any of his casual flirtations; this was something different. This was serious. A couple of times, he even caught Neal watching him with veiled longing, his gaze flicking away a second too late.

At Peter's house, Neal kept checking out the window for OPR, apparently unable to settle. But the footage of Tulane drew him to the couch next to Peter, his focus fixed on the laptop screen.

Peter, meanwhile, was acutely aware of Neal's physical presence. Even without looking, he could tell where Neal was in the room, what he was doing. Once Neal sat down, Peter managed to keep his eyes on the tape long enough to catch Tulane turning to the camera, and then he gave in. Neal was innocent of the diamond theft, he was well within reach and he was damned irresistible with his shirt open at the throat and his sleeves rolled up. Peter knew he shouldn't do anything—Neal was still Neal Caffrey—but El was right. Peter had been protesting too much all this time. And he had her blessing. They could work out all the other crap later.

He let his hand fall casually between them, his wrist brushing Neal's thigh.

Neal didn't react. He stared steadfastly at the screen, his breathing quiet and even.

Obviously, it was going to take more than a casual yawn-and-stretch. Subtlety had never been Peter's strong suit anyway. "Hey."

"What?" Neal turned his head, and Peter reached out, brushed Neal's cheek with his thumb and kissed him, taking his time, nothing too heavy, giving Neal every chance to back off if he wanted.

Which he did. He leaned back, wide-eyed. "Peter! We're not even drunk."

He sounded shocked and confused, but he hadn't shifted away and he had Peter's knee in a death grip, both of which facts gave Peter just enough courage to say, "I know that. Is this something you still want when you're sober?"

Neal licked his lip, his gaze dropping to Peter's mouth and staying there. "What about Elizabeth?"

Which left the whole legal situation out of the equation, at least for now. Peter tried not to let it bother him. "Yeah, we need to talk about that," he said in answer to Neal's question. "How do you feel about my wife?"

"I'm not sure what you—"

"Just tell me the truth." Peter put his hand on Neal's forearm, just below his rolled-up shirtsleeves, and swallowed a groan of desire. Neal's arm was warm and muscular, but a chaste touch like this should not be enough to turn Peter on. And yet.

But they had to have this conversation.

"I don't know what you're asking," said Neal. Peter gave him an impatient look, and he sighed. "Elizabeth is amazing. She's beautiful, kind, very smart. She has great fashion sense and excellent taste. You know all this. And I would never want to hurt her."

"Could you love her?" asked Peter, figuring if he didn't ask outright, Neal's character reference could go on all night.

Neal frowned. "Peter, I—_What?_"

Without Peter's authorization, Peter's thumb started stroking back and forth over the soft skin of Neal's inner arm. It was incredibly intimate. Peter struggled to keep his head in the conversation. "Because I love her, and if you want me, then you have to factor her in too."

Neal's frowned deepened. "Do you really think she'd consider—?"

"It was her idea," said Peter, and saw Neal's _oh_, saw him register where Peter's hand was, what was on offer here.

Neal leaned in fractionally. "Peter."

And that was all it took. Peter gave in to desire and practically pounced on him, pressed him back against the arm of the couch and claimed his mouth. Neal's hands were instantly everywhere, tugging at Peter's tie, pulling his shirt free of his pants. Peter swore against his lips and Neal's tongue flicked against his. Peter felt it right down to his stomach.

He angled his leg between Neal's thighs and rocked into him, making him gasp and clutch Peter's ass to drag him closer. "You'd better—God—better be—sure about this," said Neal. "Because—oh, fuck, Peter—I don't—"

It took a moment for the words to sink in, but when they did, Peter stiffened and pulled back slowly, blinking to clear the lust fog. Neal was right. While Peter's body was utterly onboard with loving Neal, the sane part of his brain still wasn't sure. He still had important questions that needed answering.

"No," said Neal immediately, trying to keep him close. "No, I didn't mean that. Ignore me. Please, just—get _back_ here!"

Peter took his hand and squeezed it to make it clear this wasn't a full-blown retreat, and fought for self-control. "Coffee? I think I need a cup of coffee."

The words came out hoarse and uneven.

He stood, still holding Neal's hand, and pulled him up, kissed him once more on the mouth, quick and hard, evading Neal's attempts to lure him back in, and went into the kitchen to put the coffee on.

Neal didn't follow him, but Peter heard him murmur under his breath, "What the hell just happened?"  
 

* * * * *

  
 

They sat across the table from each other with their coffee. Peter needed the barrier, or he'd be skipping this part and jumping right to the sex. He rubbed his eyes. "Look, I know it's too soon to ask this. I know that. But given what's at stake, I think it's important that we know where we stand."

"Okay." Neal was rumpled from kissing, his lips reddened and slightly swollen. The hollow at the base of his throat was mesmerizing. He looked like a wet dream. "What is it?"

Peter looked down at his coffee cup. When he thought he had himself under control, he glanced up again. Neal was staring and probably still turned on, and Peter didn't want to talk about this at all, but he had to. "How serious are you? Will you give up Kate?"

Neal's eyes widened. He hadn't been expecting that. "It's not a question of—"

Peter held up a hand to stop him. "She makes you do things you shouldn't. I'm not getting mixed up in that. Not when it could blow my career or hurt Elizabeth. You have to choose—when it comes down to the wire, will you put me and El first, or will you throw away everything for Kate, including us."

"I—" He stopped as if he didn't know how to answer, and Peter's stomach plummeted. He should've known.

He tightened his grip on his coffee mug. "Forget it. If you're still in love with her, this whole thing is a waste of time. Let's just add this to the list of things we're pretending never happened."

"No, I just." Neal reached out across the table. "I have an obligation, Peter. You know how those work, right?" He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling, his long throat begging to be licked. Then he straightened and met Peter's eye. "Listen, how about you help me rescue Kate? We'll work together to make sure she's okay. After that, I'm all yours."

"Is this a game?" Peter asked, studying him carefully for the signs. "Is this all a roundabout way of getting me to help you and humiliating me in the process?"

"I swear it's not. If she was any other person in distress, you'd help her. It's what you do." Neal certainly looked sincere. And it didn't make much difference, anyway; when it came down to it, Peter wasn't sure he could deny him anything anymore.

Peter turned his coffee cup on the table. "For you." There was no glimmer of triumph on Neal's face, no hint of satisfaction, only relief. Peter weighed the risks and made his decision. "Okay, we'll do it."

"Thank you!" Neal's smile was quick and brilliant. He pushed his coffee aside and started to get up. "Now, where were we?"

Peter didn't move. He took a deep breath. "Maybe we should wait."

Neal stopped dead in his tracks. "What? No, but we've—"

"I know delayed gratification is antithetical to your worldview, but we can't do anything while OPR is watching—we shouldn't even be talking about this here. If they bugged my phone, there's no telling what else they've done." Peter tilted his head in sympathy at Neal's evident frustration. "And El isn't here—she should be part of this."

"Is that how this works?" Neal's frustration eased a little.

"I don't know how this works. I haven't done it before." Peter wanted nothing more than to touch him again. If he closed his eyes, he could still taste him. But he held back. "I do know that some things are worth the wait. This is going to be one of them, trust me. Let's get rid of Fowler and his guys, sort out whatever Kate's got herself into, and we can take it from there."

Of course, it was one thing to say it, and another thing entirely to stick to it, but there was plenty going on to distract them. They arrested Tulane ("Neal, do you have to be so apologetic?"), Fowler went back to DC at least for the time being, and Peter set up a meeting with Kate in an anonymous hotel room. He took Neal.

Elizabeth, who'd apparently reached an unspoken understanding with Neal in the space of a smile and a hug, insisted on waiting for them in the hotel bar. "I want to know everything as soon as you're done."  
 

* * * * *

  
 

Neal and Kate's reunion was difficult to watch, but not for the reasons Peter expected. He and Neal were early, and Peter sat in the only armchair, next to the table lamp, facing the door, while Neal prowled around the room, hat in hand, checking the window for any sign of surveillance and generally making Peter nervous. This wasn't going to be at all awkward.

When Kate let herself in, she didn't notice Neal at first. "Hello, Peter."

"Kate. We need to talk." Peter cast a sideways glance at Neal, but Kate didn't see. She was too busy pulling a gun.

Peter almost laughed—she was such a child, no wonder Neal felt responsible for her—but it was still a deadly weapon. "I'm not here to hurt you."

"What are you doing?" Neal stepped forward. "You're using a gun now?"

Kate's eyes widened at the sight of him, but she answered crisply. "A girl on her own has to protect herself somehow." She lowered the weapon. "Neal, what are you doing here?"

"I need to know you're okay," said Neal, but he was keeping his distance, either because of the gun or because Peter was watching—Peter couldn't tell which.

Kate's laugh was brittle. "Why, so you can absolve yourself and move on?"

Peter winced. Luckily they weren't paying him any attention.

"Something like that," said Neal, his shoulders tense. He gestured with his hat. "Kate, if you need help—"

"I don't need _you_." She checked the safety on her gun and shoved it back into her coat pocket. "Who is it? Are you going back to Alex?"

Neal ignored the jibe. "Tell me what you need. I'm not hanging you out to dry."

"Yeah, not again." She rolled her eyes.

This wasn't the couple Peter had caught glimpses of during his pursuit of Neal. They had been mischievous, eyes laughing, children with the world as their playground. This was what four years' imprisonment had done: left Kate in stasis while Neal had haphazardly but undeniably grown into a man.

"I missed you," Neal tried.

Kate went to the bar fridge, spilling cold white light into the room, and helped herself to a tiny bottle of vodka. "You don't get lonely, Neal. Not you. You just find someone else. Do you think I've forgotten how you operate?"

She drank the vodka in one slug and dumped the empty bottle in the trash.

"I was in prison," said Neal. He wasn't pleading—he was trying to reason with her, and it wasn't working.

Peter decided it was time to intervene. "Kate."

They both jumped, apparently having forgotten he was there at all. Neal recovered quickly, but Peter had seen. He chose to rise above it. Of course they were engrossed in each other: they were each other's formative influence. "Tell us what's going on. Who's pulling your strings? Is it Fowler?"

"Who?" She gave him a carefully blank look. Peter wondered if Neal could see through it. "I don't know his name," she said, and hesitated. "He's powerful and he doesn't like loose ends." She looked to Neal. "That's why I was trying to get it off you without telling you what he wants. To protect you. If he knows you know, you're toast."

"What is it?" asked Peter.

"But you know," said Neal at the same time. "Which means—"

"I'm fucked, yeah." Kate sat on the end of the bed and hunched inside her coat. "He won't let me leave New York State, but even if he did, there's nowhere to hide. He's got reach."

Now she was actually talking to them, she seemed older, despite her body language. Peter started to feel sorry for her, an impulse that dimmed when Neal sat next to her and took her hand. "I'll get you out of this."

"You can't." Kate looked bleak. "It's too late."

"What does he want?" asked Peter again. "Who is he? What do you know about him?"

"I _can't_." She threw herself back on the bed with a groan and covered her face with her arms like a kid.

The air conditioning grumbled into action and sent a cool draft across the room. Peter stayed seated and let Neal handle Kate.

"Hey," said Neal, turning his hat in his hands. "Keep it together. Remember Montmartre?"

She moved her arms and looked up. "That was different."

"It's always different," Neal told her. "What does he want."

She took a shaky breath, sat up again and smoothed her clothes. "He wants the music box."

Peter frowned. "A music box?"

Neal knew exactly what she meant, of course. He explained about Catherine the Great's amber room, and how the music box had been stolen. "Why that?" he asked Kate. "It's not worth all this."

She shook her head. "I don't want to know. Really. The less you know, the better. Just give him the music box and get me out of here." She bit her lip. "If he knew I was meeting with you, he'd be furious. I'm not allowed to see you—he knows you'd try to help me get away from him. That's why I can't come home."

Neal shot a quick glance at Peter, then turned back to her. "We don't have a home anymore," he said in a low voice. "Not together. But I promise I'll get you out of this."

Kate sniffed and nodded. "I missed you too." She blew her nose and stood up. "I have to go. It's too dangerous for all of us."  
 

* * * * *

  
 

Peter and Neal found Elizabeth in the hotel bar, drinking fruit juice. "How did it go?"

Peter pulled a face and said, "I feel a hundred years old right now."

That surprised a laugh out of Neal. "She was having a bad day."

"Evidently," said Peter. "Shall we get out of here?"

The hotel was two blocks from the park. Peter filled Elizabeth in on the meeting, while Neal walked alongside them with his hands in his pockets, uncharacteristically quiet.

"Everything okay?" Peter asked as they waited to cross Fifth Avenue.

"Are you sure you should be telling Elizabeth about this?" Neal looked around to make sure no one was listening. "Aren't we putting her in danger too?" His words came out in little white puffs of condensation.

El stole the hat off his head and put it on. "I have to know everything. Peter and I even made it a clause in our marriage vows." She smiled up at him from under the brim. "Otherwise I'm unbearable."

The traffic halted and they crossed into the park. It was cold enough that there was hardly anyone around—a few diehard joggers and a young couple on bicycles. The ground glittered with frost and most of the trees were bare, and Peter took a moment to wish that they could forget about Kate. That he could be here, at night in Central Park in the grip of early winter, with his wife and his—whatever Neal was. Maybe have a midnight picnic.

"Like right now," El was telling Neal, "I'm dying to ask about you and Kate. But I won't because we have more important things to deal with."

"She means that," said Peter, shaking his head. "The fact that it's none of her business has never stopped her in her life."

"Oh, maybe once or twice," said El airily. She doffed the hat, twirled it between her fingers like a pro and offered it back to Neal.

Neal smiled down at her with obvious warmth and set it carefully back on her head. "It's your business," he told her. "I mean, if you want it to be. But not right now."

"No, not now," agreed Peter, distracted by their little by-play. They looked good together—He found himself ambushed by the desire to see them kiss, and he had to clear his throat before he could speak again. "So. What do we do?"

They came to a fork in the path, and by unspoken agreement they headed toward the duck pond. El kicked at some crisp leaves at the edge of the path. "As long as you do nothing, Kate's safe?"

"Safe, but not free," said Neal.

El nodded. "And safe for how long?"

"So, we need to do something." Neal sat down on a park bench and looked out across the pond. "How do we get this guy?"

Peter sat next to him, and when El joined them, he put his arm around her to keep her warm. He wanted to do the same for Neal, but he couldn't bridge the gap. Not while Neal was fixating on helping Kate.

Peter scratched his chin. "Given he's making such a big deal about secrecy, I'd suggest we blow the whole thing wide open. Take it to the news media, get the front page of the Times. He can't retaliate against the entire population of New York. But it's too flimsy. We don't have enough facts, no evidence—not even The Daily Show would take this on." He cast Neal a sideways glance. "There must be something pretty special about this music box. I want to see it."

Neal folded his arms, then unfolded them again and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and hanging his head. "I don't have it."

Peter wasn't sure whether to believe him. "Kate seemed pretty sure you did."

"Everyone always assumed," said Neal, his voice muffled by his coat. "I never told them otherwise. And if we take our story to the media, whoever does have it will go to ground, and Kate will be toast."

"So what, then?" Peter leaned his knee casually against Neal's, then gave up the pretense and loosely clasped his shoulder as well.

Neal glanced back and shot him a small smile.

"I assume witness protection isn't an option," said Elizabeth. "What if we faked Kate's death? There's nothing he can do if he thinks she's dead, is there?"

Peter considered that. "If he's got as much reach as Kate says, he'll have access to coroner's reports and police statements. We wouldn't fool him for more than a couple of hours."

"I could get the music box," said Neal, still hunched over. "That would at least give us some bargaining power."

"And no reason for this guy—whoever he is—to keep Kate or you alive." Peter pulled Neal upright so he could meet his eye. "And by 'get', I'm assuming you mean steal. Don't make me put you back in prison, Neal."

Neal scowled, and stood up, frustration evident in every movement. "What if it's the only way, Peter? Or what if there isn't a way? What if this guy really is out of our league?"

"We'll get him," said Peter. "No one's too big to fall."

"Tell that to Citigroup and AIG," said Neal, sounding tired.

El got up, went to him and pulled him into a hug. "Between you and Peter, you'll find a way."

She sounded so sure. Neal wrapped his arms around her and held her, and Peter feasted his eyes on them and wanted them—now, together, always. He wanted the right to love them, to protect them, to hold them and be held. By the time they drew apart, he was half turned on.

"El's right. There must be an answer," he said, "but I'm not finding it tonight." He stood up. "Come on, we'll walk you home."

"I could come back to your place," Neal suggested, raising his eyebrows hopefully.

Peter leveled a look at him that he hoped conveyed regret as well as reproof. "They'll be watching your tracker. We've already taken enough risks."

"We could come back to your place." Elizabeth put her hand on Neal's arm.

It was Neal's turn to shake his head. "I'm pretty sure they're watching June's house. OPR or someone else. Call it a hunch."

Elizabeth sighed dramatically. "Thwarted at every turn."

"Unless," said Peter. Both of them looked up expectantly. "The hotel room's paid up for the night," he said. "And oh, look, I forgot to hand in the keycard." He dug in his pants pocket for the plastic rectangle.

"Sneaky," said Neal with a slow smile. "Peter, I'm starting to think you planned this."

Peter snorted. "If I'd planned it, we wouldn't be freezing our asses off in the middle of Central Park." They started drifting back the way they'd come. "One question," Peter said to Neal. "Is Alex a man or a woman?"

Neal stepped into his path and kissed him, bold and brief, making Peter tingle all over. "Short for Alexandra. I haven't done this before either."

Elizabeth came up beside them, her eyes shadowed by the brim of Neal's hat. "Do that again," she demanded huskily. "Kiss."

Peter's breath caught. "Not here."  
 

* * * * *

  
 

It wasn't the hotel room Peter would have chosen if he'd been planning a seduction. It was small and plain—not Elizabeth's style or, he was willing to bet, Neal's—and the ghost of Kate lingered around the bed, the covers still a little rumpled where she'd sat. But it was private and anonymous, and it was what they had.

The door shut with a clunk. They'd taken off their scarves in the elevator, and Neal was carrying his coat. Elizabeth slipped hers off too and turned on Peter and Neal. "Whoever's wearing the hat calls the shots," she said, setting the trilby at an angle. She switched on the lights and scraped her teeth across her lower lip thoughtfully. "Let me see you kiss."

Peter and Neal exchanged glances. The lights were bright and unforgiving after the park, and there was no way not to feel self-conscious. "No pressure," said Peter, wryly. "Are you sure this is what you want?"

"Yes, Peter, I'm sure." Neal advanced on him. "When are you going to believe that?"

"I don't know," said Peter, but Neal was already shoving his overcoat from his shoulders. Neal wrapped one arm around his waist, the other around his neck, and raised his mouth to Peter's, flicked his tongue against Peter's lips. For the first time, there was no reason to hold back or put the brakes on: El was here, they were safe, and Neal patently wanted him.

The knowledge was like a drug, heightening his senses. He backed Neal up against the wall by the light switch and studied him, every plane and angle, the way his lips were parted, his breath coming fast. Peter brushed his thumb carefully across Neal's cheekbone, stubble rough against his palm, and Neal pressed into his hand, his eyes dark and fixed on Peter's, waiting. But Peter didn't kiss him yet. He tugged at Neal's tie to loosen it and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, then pulled the collar sideways as well as he could, and nuzzled the soft skin below his ear down to the base of his neck. Peter closed his mouth on the pulse point, blood racing against his tongue, and breathed Neal in. He smelled spicy and clean, and his cock was already hard against Peter's thigh.

Peter leaned into him, his sharp angles so different from Elizabeth, and shivered with anticipation. "What do you like?" he asked, pulling back just enough to meet Neal's eye. "What can I do?"

"The, uh," said Neal unsteadily, "the person wearing the hat calls the shots."

"That's right," said Elizabeth, closer than Peter had realized. "I want you to kiss him."

"Well, in that case—" Peter moved in slowly, and pressed his mouth to Neal's, slid his tongue into Neal's mouth, and gave himself up to Neal's hungry response.

Neal kissed with dedication and focus, and a little bit of bite that made Peter want to tear both their clothes off and rub their bodies together.

"Mmmm," said El in his ear, humming her approval. Peter pulled back panting and looked at her blurrily, briefly concerned that she might be hurt by his absorption in Neal. He needn't have worried. She was watching with her hand to her chest, her eyes shining with obvious desire. Her nipples were hard under the sheer fabric of her blouse. She craned up to kiss him, dirty and wet, and then did the same to Neal. Peter caught a glimpse of her even white teeth closing around Neal's lower lip, and he groaned helplessly and stole the hat.

As he put it on, El broke away from Neal enough to pout up at him. "Thief!"

Neal laughed low—"You're getting us confused."—and El cuffed the side of his head without looking and grinned at Peter. "It's not really your style, honey."

"Never taunt the man calling the shots," Neal told her. He gave Peter a look of such unadulterated sexiness that several fuses in Peter's brain blew out. "What do you want?"

"I don't know," said Peter. "More of that, only—" He adjusted the hat, which was a size too small, and tried vainly to think of something appropriately clever or sophisticated. When nothing else occurred to him, he resorted to, "—on the bed."

At least that would get them away from the door.

The bed turned out to be a good call—it led to Elizabeth sprawled with abandon on her back, her hair curling across the pillow. She flung her arm above her head, bracing against the wall, and her bent knee made her skirt ride up. Neal held himself over her, one hand on her smooth creamy thigh, and teased her mouth with an intense kind of patience while he rolled his hips against hers, over and over, making her moan.

It was the most erotic thing Peter had seen in his life. He knelt on the thin carpet beside the bed, transfixed, and barely noticed when Neal's hand snaked out and snagged the hat from his head.

"My turn." Neal sat back on his heels.

El got up on her elbows, cheeks rosy, and said, "I must have been doing something wrong, or you wouldn't have stopped."

Neal gave her a small smile—it took a moment for Peter to recognize it as embarrassed—and said, "I'm not ready to, uh, finish yet. And I was going to."

"Oh." El's gaze skated down his body. "Okay. Good answer."

Peter's pulse pounded in his ears. "What do you want?"

Neal put the hat on and looked at him, eyes gleaming. "I want Elizabeth to get you out of that suit," he said. "If you happened to help her out of some of her clothes at the same time, that would be a bonus."

"You want to watch an old married couple?" Peter reached up and tested Neal's lower lip with his thumb. "Pervert."

Neal's mouth curved under his touch. "Guilty."

"Did you just confess to something?" Peter leaned in and kissed him. He tasted of Elizabeth. "Honey, Neal just—"

"Shut up and get over here," said El, softening the words with a smile that bordered on desperate. "Both of you."

"Time to bend the rules." Peter snatched the hat back before Neal could stop him and threw it across the room. "Can't keep a lady waiting."

"At least the jacket," said Neal, and almost fell off the bed trying to help Peter remove it.

El sat up to watch. "Hi, remember me?"

"I'm in pursuit of greater justice," said Neal breathlessly. He tugged the jacket from Peter's arm, pulling it inside out, then sat up and sent it twisting through the air in the direction of the hat.

"There are still too many clothes in this equation," El pointed out. She stripped her blouse over her head and reached behind her to unhook her bra and free her breasts, stealing Neal's attention.

Peter took his cue from El and promptly got naked. Neal held back long enough that Peter had another pang of wondering if he was having second thoughts, but then he got with the program too, carelessly tossing his fancy clothes into a heap on the floor till he was wearing nothing but the tracker.

Against Neal's bare skin and gorgeous body, the plastic looked cold and unforgiving, its green blinking light a reminder that they shouldn't be doing this. Neal caught him looking. "It's okay."

"It's not," said Peter, but he shoved him gently onto the bed, stretched out with him and Elizabeth, and kissed him deeply. It wasn't that Neal didn't deserve his punishment—he'd committed plenty of crimes. Peter of all people knew that. But Neal was too smart and too alive to be restricted. It was fair, but it was wrong—which made no sense. Peter put the thought aside and let himself sink into the dual embrace of the two people he loved, skin-hot and sensual, El's nails on his back, Neal's hands exploring his chest, sides, belly and lower down, until all of them were groping and kissing whoever and whatever they could reach.

Then El pushed Peter onto his back and straddled him, sinking down on his cock in one smooth movement.

Peter bit back a curse and let her set the pace, her wet heat enveloping him. He reached down and nudged her clit with his knuckle, just how she liked it, and she moaned appreciation, her eyes hot and heavy-lidded, and shot Neal a wicked smile. "Still feeling perverted?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, at once.

"Just as well," Peter said, refusing to feel embarrassed.

"Oh good," said El at the same time. "Damn, where's the hat?" She looked around, her hips twisting deliciously.

"You don't need it," Neal told her. His bicep was flexing, shoulder shifting in time with El's sinuous motion as he touched himself. "Just ask."

But El was distracted. She raised up and sank down a couple of strokes, her head thrown back, breasts bouncing with the movements. "Oh God."

Peter gripped her hips and shuddered under her, wanting more. Wanting to roll her over and fuck her, overwhelmed by what they were doing, how incredible it was, the familiar and the new tangled up together.

El looked down at him, her eyes dark. "Kiss him."

Peter's heart swelled. This wasn't his wife allowing Neal into their bed and grudgingly permitting him to watch. This was her making him a part of it, explicit and integral. Peter held her gaze, loving this side of her, earthy and debauched, her makeup smudged, her eyes glazed. "I love you," he told her, and he turned his head on the pillow. Neal was right there, up on one elbow, avidly watching Peter's hand, the place where Peter and El were joined.

"Sometime, I would really love for you to take me from behind while Peter and I are doing this," El told Neal. She sounded like she was aiming for a conversational tone, but her voice was rushed and throaty.

"El!" Peter was half scandalized and a lot turned on. Stunned by the image of what she'd said—the idea of Neal behind her now, all three of them joined—

"But not tonight," she added. "Tonight I want to see you."

"You've been thinking about this." Neal was looking at her face now. "That's—God, Elizabeth."

She grinned. "I have big plans for you, babycakes."

"I'm in," said Neal, promptly, his hand travelling up her thigh.

"Neal?" Peter was dizzy with trying to keep it together as El rode him so sweetly and Neal lay pressed against his side, hot and aroused and _his_. The exchange between them, on top of that, was too much. He felt feverish.

"I'm here," said Neal. He put his hand on Peter's cheek and pulled their foreheads together. "You caught me."

"I'm good at that."

"And you didn't even need to cuff me this time." Neal slung his leg over Peter's. The tracker bumped Peter's ankle, and anger spiked in Peter's chest—anger at Neal for having got himself into trouble in the first place, for having made this mess so complicated. But that was Neal—it was always going to be complicated. Neal couldn't keep himself out of trouble for the time it took to make a cup of coffee, and now Peter had got El tangled up in it too, and what the hell kind of relationship was it where they had to sneak around in hotels anyway—

He literally broke into a sweat, thinking of all the ways it could go wrong. The Bureau, Hughes, Kate, Fowler—they were just the tip of the iceberg.

"Are you okay?" Neal pulled back, frowning.

Peter closed his eyes. "No. I'm thinking too much."

"Well, don't." Neal's lips brushed his, stubble grazing his chin. "Keep your eyes closed. Don't think. Feel."

Peter did as he was told. He inhaled, his nostrils full of the scents of Neal's skin and El's sex. Neal's palm was firm on his chest, and a second later another pressure joined it there—El's hand right over his heart—and she started moving again, her thighs tight against his sides, pinning him down. Peter had barely been aware that she'd stopped, but now darkness built inside him, need, and he had to work to hold off, to last until she was ready—not least because Neal's tongue was sweeping into his mouth with an extravagance that made Peter moan and his blood thunder.

"I caught you too," murmured Neal against his lips. "And I'm not letting you get away either."

Peter held both their hands to his chest and opened to Neal, licking his tongue, inviting him further in. El tightened around Peter's cock and swore, which meant she was coming any second now. Peter couldn't wait any longer. He bucked up under her and his orgasm hit him in a rush of pleasure and awe and sparks behind his eyelids. He gasped into Neal's mouth, clutched his shoulder. He still had his eyes closed, and the slight groan of the mattress springs, El's cries, the sounds Neal was making in the back of his throat, the faint slap of skin on skin from El's increasingly frantic movements—it was magic. It filled Peter to the brim and made him fall in love again, not just with El or Neal, but with the three of them together. "Jesus!"

"Oh my God," moaned El, and pulsed around him in waves.

Peter broke away from Neal's mouth and opened his eyes. He couldn't miss this. El was as beautiful and sexy as always. Sexier, with Neal's hand on her breast, his long fingers caressing her as she came.

As soon as Peter could move with any coordination, he ran a hand down Neal's side, making his way over his ribs to his jutting hipbone, and then forward and down through the tangle of his pubic hair, to his erection, heavy and tight. It was the first time Peter had touched another man's cock. He hadn't known it would feel so natural, so right. "Neal, just—give it to me."

Neal gave an undignified grunt and scrambled to get his knee under him so he could fuck Peter's fist with short, abbreviated thrusts. It would have been better with lube, but there was none and no time to improvise. El dismounted and sat back on Peter's thighs, watching avidly. She took Neal's hand from her breast and sucked his fingers messily into her mouth, her chin growing wet with saliva.

Within a minute—and too soon for Peter, who could have done this all night—Neal was spilling hot and wet against Peter's hip, his color rising, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he lost control. Seeing it was devastating. Peter was torn between possessive pleasure and a lingering unease he couldn't shake.

El and Neal collapsed onto the bed on either side of him, bouncing a little on the mattress, and the three of them lay panting. "Wow," said Neal.

"Mmmhmmm." El sounded half asleep already. After a few minutes, she orchestrated them getting under the covers and turned out the light. She nestled into Peter's side and fell asleep in no time, snoring under her breath like always, a soft grumbling that never failed to make Peter smile.

Peter and Neal lay awake, exploring each other's bodies with their fingers, taking time to settle into this new space and adjust to the emotions and turn of events that allowed them to be naked together, that drew Neal into the intimate reaches of Peter's marriage.

The corners of Neal's mouth were curved in satisfaction, and that should have reassured Peter that this was what Neal wanted, but the niggle kept niggling.

"What's wrong?" Neal was alert and observant even now. Maybe he couldn't switch it off, or maybe—

_I'm not your mark_, thought Peter. And hell, he might as well say it, or some of it. "This is a game to you," he said. "To El, too."

"No. Or, well, yes." Neal had the gall to look amused. "Everything's a game, Peter. Some games, the stakes are life or death. Some, they're love or despair or loneliness."

"And some are about winning," said Peter, poking him in the chest.

Neal shrugged, letting the sheet slip lower. "Oh, they're all about winning. I'm not—" He sighed and laid his head on Peter's shoulder. "I don't have any ulterior motives, and I'm not doing this lightly. I need you."

"Okay." It wasn't a declaration of love, but maybe it was better.

"I won't hurt either of you if I can help it," added Neal, and Peter had to stop him there.

"All right," he said, twitching his shoulder to jog Neal's head. "Save the wedding vows. I just need to know you aren't playing us."

"I'm not," said Neal, and this time, maybe for the first time, Peter believed him.

"Good." He pressed his lips to Neal's temple and lay back to smile stupidly at the ceiling. "Go to sleep."

"'Night," mumbled El from Peter's other side.

Peter twisted to kiss the top of her head. "Good night, honey."  
 

* * * * *

  
 

He woke in the night to the clink of bottles and a strip of light from the fridge falling into the room. "Neal?"

"Sorry." The light snapped off, leaving Peter night-blind. After a few moments, he could see Neal, a pale shape in the darkness, moving around the room, prowling like he had earlier, before the meeting with Kate.

Peter lay back, summoning the will to move, and then made himself get up and go over to the window, where Neal was standing, the curve of his neck outlined faintly in the moonlight filtering through the translucent white drapes. He turned at Peter's approach. "I know how to rescue Kate."

Something in his tone sent an adrenaline jolt through Peter. He was instantly awake. "How?"

"We run a con on the guy." Neal leaned on the wall beside the window. Even in the near darkness of the room, he looked tired and jittery. "Kate and I run. I orchestrate a false trail of clues in the other direction. You follow the trail. There's no way he'll try to find me himself—he'll sit back and wait for you to do it for him. When he's lost interest, I can leave Kate somewhere safe and come back."

He might as well have punched Peter in the jaw. "How much do I hate that plan? Let me count the ways."

"I know it's not ideal but it's the only way to get her to safety," said Neal. "Peter—"

It was obvious he wasn't going to let this go until Peter made him face facts. "You have no idea what you're asking. For starters, you'd be violating your parole. And I'm not leaving Elizabeth behind to go traipsing around the country on a wild goose chase for however long it would take. It could be months. I'd rather transfer to Organized Crime."

Neal leaned his head back against the wall, defeated.

"Yeah, you have other people to consider now," said Peter. "Look how long it took you to forget that. What is it, two a.m.?"

"Then I'm going to have to do it his way." Neal's hand landed on Peter's shoulder. "You have to let me go after the music box."

Peter pressed his lips together, infuriated.

"It was stolen by the Nazis," said Neal, pressing his advantage. "Whoever has it must have it illegally or they wouldn't be keeping it so well hidden. Maybe they'll sell it to me."

"If it was for sale, the guy behind this would have it by now." Peter rubbed his eyes and sighed. "Neal, we want you here with us. We'll find a way to rescue Kate together. We will."

"There isn't any other way," said Neal, stubbornly. "You have to—"

There was a rustle from the bed. "Honey, let him steal the damned box." El sounded half asleep. "You know he's going to do it anyway. Now, can we all please go back to sleep?"

Peter narrowed his eyes at Neal. "No ulterior motive, you said."

"I promise." Neal took his hand and drew him back to bed.

Peter made him get in first. Let Neal Caffrey sleep in the middle. At least that would make it a little bit harder for him to slip away without warning.  
 

* * * * *

  
 

Of course, thinking that only jinxed it, and Peter woke up properly five or so hours later to Neal, fully dressed including the hat, letting himself into the room with a tray of coffee and a brown paper bag that smelled like pastries.

"Croissants," said Neal. "I know you like Super Sugar O's, but trust me, these are better."

"I've had croissants before," said Peter. "You look like the cat that ate the cream and an entire family of mice. What did you do?"

"He's probably just excited about you letting him steal the music box," said El, rolling over and rubbing her eyes. "Is that cappuccino? You're an angel!"

"I'm not 'letting' him steal the box," Peter objected.

El and Neal paused mid coffee exchange, both with their hands on the paper cup, and looked at him, eyebrows raised.

Peter caved to the inevitable. "Fine. I'm letting him steal the box. But I'm not happy about it. It's not a cause for celebration."

"You don't have to like it, honey." El bit the end off a croissant. She patted his knee. "It's okay."

Peter glared at her until she burst into giggles, crumbs flying, and spilled her coffee. "Ow! Now look what you made me do."

"Oh, that was my fault," said Peter, and took a mouthful of his own—admittedly excellent—latte.

"Is he always this grumpy after sex?" Neal asked, waving his croissant in Peter's direction.

"Well, you did wake him up at two a.m. and threaten to run away and make his life hell," said El, apparently not wholly blind to Peter's suffering.

"Oh, right," said Neal. He sat on the end of the bed and grimaced at Peter. "Sorry about that."

"Mmf." Peter wasn't ready to be placated yet.

"I'm taking a shower." El put her empty coffee cup on the nightstand and climbed out of bed. "You—" She pointed at Neal. "—are not allowed to have sex with my husband until I get back. Not even a blowjob."

He tossed his hat onto the chair and winked at her. "You'd better hurry."

She bent to kiss him. "Good coffee." And he patted her ass as she slipped off to the bathroom.

Peter managed not to splutter, but only because the coffee really was that good. And okay, because Neal was standing up now and slowly peeling off his clothes, piece by piece, with an intent, sultry gleam.

"Don't tell me," said Peter. "One of your aliases is a male stripper."

Neal laughed, breaking the mood, and pounced on him, still wearing his pants. "Would you like it to be?"

Peter hauled him in for a kiss and let his hands drift over the span of his shoulder blades and the muscles of his back to his waist. "You're going to be the death of me."

"But what a way to go," said Neal, and turned his head to bite Peter's earlobe. "I hope Elizabeth doesn't take long showers."

And that was how it went for the next few weeks. They worked cases together, Neal looked for the music box and Peter tried to maintain a balance between plausible deniability and keeping an eye on him, and whenever they could, the three of them would meet in a hotel room—always a different hotel, always within Neal's radius—and spend the night loving and teasing and, only from necessity, sleeping together.

"You're getting to be an expensive habit," Peter told Neal, when he got his Visa bill, and Elizabeth put her arms around both of them, and said, "One day we'll get to take you home. I promise."

They did, in fact, spend a couple of stolen afternoons in the luxurious comfort of Peter and El's bedroom, but it always felt risky. OPR had bugged them before—there was nothing to say they wouldn't do it again.

Peter didn't know for sure when the music box heist was going to happen. He could tell from Neal's suppressed excitement that it was getting close, but he didn't ask, so when it did go down it felt sudden, the pattern of his life violently jolted. He put up a token show of protest for the surveillance cameras that were undoubtedly trained on Neal's place, and did his best to trust that Neal wouldn't run with Kate or his other slinky friend, Alex, when he had the chance.

Which was why it was a shock when Neal came to his office and said goodbye. He had a yellow envelope full of papers and his anklet was gone. Apparently cat burglary was a fast-track way to officially earn one's freedom these days.

"You did it," said Peter, his throat aching. "Congratulations."

"Peter—"

"Now Fowler has the music box and you've got your freedom, you've got Kate—" If they were going to put on a show for the office, Peter was going to do this right. "You're a free man."

Neal shut the door and turned to him. "This isn't goodbye."

"But you're leaving." Peter wanted to stand up, to go to him. He couldn't move.

It was Neal who bridged the gap, who came and leaned across the desk till his face—familiar, loved, _needed_—was only a few inches away. "I'm taking her somewhere safe, and then I'll be right back. A couple of weeks, tops. You won't even know I'm gone."

"Okay." Peter swallowed hard.

"And I'll be free." Neal's eyes were bright. "No more tracker, no more sneaking around."

Peter nodded, gritting his teeth. His hands knotted together on the desk. His handcuffs were in his top desk drawer. He could force Neal to stay. Except that Neal would pick the locks in a second.

Neal gazed at him unblinking, and then breathed a laugh. "Is there anything I can say that will make you believe I didn't plan this all along?"

"I don't think that," said Peter, raising his chin. "I just—I don't want you to go."

Neal's shoulders twitched and his smile faded. "I have to."

Peter took a deep breath. "Then get out of here before I do something stupid and out us to the entire office."

Neal studied his face a second longer, like he was memorizing it, and then nodded. He stood up, smoothed down his jacket, tucked the envelope of documents under his arm and headed for the door. Peter watched him go with a sense of looming dread.

"Wait." Somehow he was standing, holding out his hand as if it would make a difference.

Neal paused in the open doorway, looked back. A bird poised for flight.

"He doesn't like loose ends," Peter reminded him. "And he's not expecting you to have a plan."

A frown flickered across Neal's face. He met Peter's eye and nodded. Then he left.  
 

* * * * *

  
 

Peter had no stomach for work after that. He left the Greenwinter investigation in Jones's hands and went home to Elizabeth, who was sitting at the dining table staring apprehensively at a vase full of bright exotic flowers. "He's gone?"

"Yeah." Peter sat next to her and took her hand, as much for his own sake as for hers. "He said he'll come back."

"I know." El had her brave face on. "And he's smart. He can take care of himself. So why do I feel like I'll never see him again?" She turned into Peter's embrace and clung to him.

Peter's phone rang. "Burke here."

"Peter, I've got bad news." It was Jones. "Neal's plane—there was an accident. It didn't even make it off the ground."

Peter stood up, fear coiling in his gut. "What happened? Is everyone okay?"

"No," said Jones. "The plane exploded on the runway. No one made it out alive."

The phone dropped to the floor, and El looked at him with big frightened eyes. "What?"

"I told him," said Peter, the words harsh in his mouth. "No loose ends. Jesus." It almost wasn't a surprise—they'd had it too good. Of course something would go brutally and fatally wrong.

El picked up the phone. "This is Elizabeth Burke. What is it?"

Peter could tell from her expression the moment Jones broke it to her. "No," she said, her face crumpling. "No, I don't believe it."

Peter knew how she felt. It was impossible to believe that Neal was gone. Really gone. Any second now, he was going to walk through that door and tell them it was a mistake, that he'd actually listened to Peter for once in his goddamned life. Peter tried calling his phone, but it went straight to voicemail. That could mean anything. "Call me," said Peter. "Call me as soon as you get this."

It felt like talking to a ghost.

They went to the scene. El insisted on coming, even though Peter warned her there'd be nothing to see. He was clinging to a thread of hope: maybe Neal hadn't been on the plane; maybe he had listened. Maybe Peter would find a clue that proved that.

The airstrip was small and generic, crowded with fire engines, firefighters and NYPD. The plane wreckage—twisted and grotesque—was doused in fire-retardant foam. The whole place smelled of fuel and acrid soot, chemicals and death.

Jones came over, looking grim but efficient. "Neal and Kate were listed on the passenger manifest," he said, "but there weren't any witnesses. No one on the tarmac survived to give a statement, so there's no way to be certain they were on the plane." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "We found an old guy who was walking his dog down to the river. He thinks he saw Neal get out of a taxi here ten minutes before the explosion. We're trying to trace the cab driver. And the NTSB guys are waiting to comb through the wreckage when it's cooled, but it's going to be a while before they can piece anything together."

"Keep me informed," said Peter. "I want to know everything."

"I'm sorry, Peter." The stoic sympathy was salt in the wound, confirming grief when Peter was trying to keep hope alive.

But Peter wasn't the only one affected. Jones had worked with Neal all this time too. "Go home. Take some time."

El was shivering, and there was nothing to do. It was under control. The NTSB would catch anything worth finding. Peter took her home and held her as tears spilled down her cheeks.

"We don't know he was on the plane," Peter said into her hair. And then, because he could still smell smoke, because when he closed his eyes he saw twisted metal and charred tarmac, and there were bodies in there, maybe Neal's body, "I never—" _Told him. Never said I love you, I need you, you belong here with us._ Something, anything to make him stay. "I'm going to find the sonofabitch who did this, and I'm going to make him pay."

Satchmo came in and sat at their feet, whining miserably as if he knew. When El went to put the kettle on, he followed at her heels.

Once El was steadier, Peter went and tracked down Neal's friend Haversham. He found him sitting on a cheap plastic patio chair outside a storage unit by the docks. "What do you know? Did Neal have a plan?"

Haversham glared at him, his eyes rimmed with red. "His plan was to get on that plane and go off for a better life. But of course your little government friends couldn't let it be that simple. They had to fuck with him, and now one of the most brilliant—" He stood up, shaking with fury. "Get away from me. I can't talk to you." And he stormed inside and slammed the door.

Peter leaned on his car and hung his head. It was a bad sign if Haversham believed the worst.

He called on June, but she only said that Neal had said goodbye. She hadn't heard about the explosion. He had to break it to her. He left her with her daughter, and went home to Elizabeth.

A shadow of uncertainty hung over the house for the next few weeks. The forensic evidence from the explosion was inconclusive. There'd definitely been people on the plane, but no one knew how many, or who. Due to the intense heat of the blast, most of the remains were too badly damaged even for dental record identification. Fowler was MIA. And Neal didn't call.

Peter stopped expecting him to. The more time passed, the harder it was to keep reality from sinking in. At the same time, Elizabeth seemed to be convincing herself that Neal was all right, that he'd arranged it like this. That any day now he was going to walk in the door. It broke Peter's heart all over again to see her looking up hopefully whenever the phone rang. He tried to talk her down, but she refused to listen, and in the end he could only let time persuade her.

Except that time seemed to have slowed down. He put out some cautious, unofficial feelers on the music box mystery but there was nothing, and days in the office lasted forever. In the evenings he went home and sat next to El on the couch, put his arm around her, and they watched TV, hoping for distraction that basic cable couldn't provide.

Once, during a Lifetime movie of the week, Peter thought about how he'd kissed Neal on this couch. He'd made his move, and Neal had accepted it, and everything after that had been wonderful and terrifying, and more than he could have hoped for. Peter wasn't the same person now; Neal had changed him. And if there was anything Peter could do to bring Neal back—anything at all that wouldn't hurt Elizabeth, be it illegal, dangerous or downright impossible—Peter wouldn't rest until it was done.

But death wasn't like that. Peter had lost both his parents—his mother to cancer, his father only a few years ago to a stroke. Peter knew about death: it wouldn't be cheated and it wouldn't be denied.

He started taking Satchmo for long rambling walks. Sometimes El came too, but more often she stayed bundled in front of the TV and drank endless mugs of tea, while Peter sloped along the evening streets of Brooklyn, remembering the good times and the bad, trying to make peace, and at his lowest moments, trying to figure out what he could have done differently. He and El still supported each other, still held each other at night, but El was handling her grief differently, and Peter knew he had to give her space to do that.

One Saturday morning, when it had been almost a month, she turned to Peter over breakfast. "He's not coming back, is he?"

Her eyes pleaded for him to lie, and it took Peter a moment to answer. "No, El. He's not."

"Do you think he planned it this way?" Her fingers were white around the handle of her spoon. "Do you think he's out there somewhere? That he's okay? Because I'd rather think he's happy than—"

"I think if he could come home, he would," Peter told her. "He wasn't cruel, and he knew how much he meant to us."

"Oh, God." El's tears dripped into her cornflakes. She covered her face. "Oh, God—"

Peter pulled her close, desperately wishing he could make it better.  
 

* * * * *

  
 

The next day he was fixing the shelf above the kitchen counter, when there was a loud crash from the living room and a shriek from El.

Peter left the electric drill on the counter and went running. "What is it?"

"—let myself in." Neal was standing in the middle of the living room, in the flesh, and El was pummeling his chest with her fists as he held her. "Elizabeth, Elizabeth, I'm sorry. I didn't know. I didn't know about the plane."

"How could you?" Her hands slowed. "We thought you were dead. Dammit, Neal, I could kill you! Do you have any idea?"

"Neal?" Peter must be seeing things. After all this time, it was impossible. But Neal was back, in the middle of their safe, ordinary, middle-class house. He was unshaven with a bruise on his cheek. His hair was lank and too long, and he was wearing dirty jeans and a thick gray cable-knit sweater that had seen better decades. But he was here.

"I was detained," Neal looked up, met Peter's eye, and Peter got that he didn't mean _delayed_. "Sergei's not big on keeping up with current events, and he was—"

El leaned against him, tears running down her cheeks. "Who's Sergei?"

"He's a Russian mobster," said Peter. "A dangerous one. Why were you—? You were in Russia?" He shook his head. It didn't matter. "God, you stink," he said instead, because Neal did—he smelled of diesel and old fish—and then Peter, feeling like he was waking from a coma, hauled them both into a bear hug and kissed him, beard and all. Neal still tasted like himself, still kissed hot and hungry. Peter couldn't draw away. El's arms came up around both of their necks.

"Kate?" she asked.

"She's safe." Neal cupped El's face and pressed his mouth to hers. "I'm sorry. Really."

"Don't be. I'm just—" She shook her head. "You're alive."

"How?" said Peter.

Neal leaned his head on Peter's shoulder. "I heard what you said—the man with the music box doesn't like loose ends—so I figured if we had to trust anyone, better to go with the devil who had no reason to want us dead." He pulled a face. "Not that Sergei was a particularly gracious host, once he found out we couldn't meet his inflated ticket price. I tried to tell him it was just because I couldn't fall back on my usual sources, but he—" Neal shrugged. "We managed to come to an arrangement eventually."

It was amazing how quickly joy could turn to alarm. Peter groaned. "Please tell me the Russians aren't after you."

"Not anymore." The corner of Neal's mouth twitched. "Trust me, you don't want details. But then I couldn't fly back without drawing attention to myself, and I couldn't call in case _he_ was tapping your phones, so—" He gestured at his clothes. He squeezed El. "If I'd known about the explosion, I would have found a way to contact you, I swear."

"You're back now." Peter hooked his arm around Neal's neck and hugged him again, just to be sure. "You're all right."

"And look," said Neal, tugging up the leg of his jeans. "No tracker. I'm legit."

"Until you run your next scam, at least," said Peter, easily. It was all easy now.

"Wait," said Elizabeth, lacing her fingers through Neal's. "Once the man with the music box finds out you're back, won't you be a target again?"

Neal brought their hands to his lips and kissed her fingers. "That's why I'm placing myself under Peter's protection." He cast Peter a sideways look. "You'll keep me safe, right?"

Peter shook his head. "You have to ask? I'll talk to Hughes about security and we'll figure it out. We need to get to the bottom of this."

"Kate gave me some ideas for where to begin," said Neal, as if he was ready to get started at once.

"Good," said Peter. "We'll get to that. But for now, you just got back and you smell like something Satchmo buried. Do you need to eat first, or can we drag you into the shower and have our way with you?"

"It's incredibly good to see you," said Neal. "Both of you. But right now, I'd kill for something to eat, even if it's devilled ham or a bowl of Sugar O's."

"You must be starving," said El. She leaned into him for a moment, then wrinkled her nose and stepped back. "Peter's right, though—you stink. Go wash up and I'll make sandwiches."

"And I'll put some coffee on," said Peter.

Neal gave them an incandescent smile, kissed them both again and started upstairs.

Elizabeth caught Peter by the arm. "Honey, go with him," she said. "I'm scared if we lose sight of him, he'll disappear again."

"He's not a ghost," said Peter. He tucked her hair behind her ear. "He's back for good this time." And he believed it, but he still did as she asked.

He found Neal in the bathroom, ransacking the cabinet. Neal smiled without looking up. "Checking up on me?"

"Making sure you're not rifling through our drawers and stealing our valuables," said Peter. "What are you looking for?"

"A razor." Neal picked up Peter's electric shaver. "I can only find this."

"That's all I've got." Peter folded his arms to help keep his hands to himself and leaned in the doorway, watching as Neal tried to use the shaver on his straggly stubble.

He gave up pretty quickly."Maybe I should grow a beard."

"I'll get you a razor," said Peter. "Anything else you need?"

"Just the basics," said Neal. "Clothes, food, shelter." He pulled his sweater over his head. "Matches and somewhere to burn this. A secure phone line so I can call Moz and June."

"I'll get you a towel and a change of clothes, and you can use El's cellphone when you're clean," said Peter, taking the sweater off him. "First, shower. My nose and my instincts are battling it out, and I know you need to eat but I'd like to be able to at least kiss you without catching legionnaire's disease."

Neal turned on the shower, grinning. "It's good to be home."  
 

* * * * *

  
 

Later, once Neal had showered and eaten, and shaved with one of El's lady razors, the three of them made love desperately, not even getting as far as the bed, their hands shaking as they found each other in the rough slide of skin and need—and then again on cotton sheets, slower, tenderly, murmuring promises. Peter and El pressed kisses to Neal's bruises, and El sucked him off while Peter licked down his sweat-slick spine, holding him, keeping him safe. They tangled together, twisting and stroking until they broke open.

When they'd caught their breath and were lying with Neal in the middle, where they could both be sure of him, El said, "So, what's next, Neal honey?"

"Mmm?" Neal was stroking lazy fingers over her breasts, brushing his lips along her jaw.

"I think she means with your life, now you're a free man," said Peter, who was lying behind him, one arm firm around his waist. "Have you thought about what you're going to do with yourself?" He'd been wondering the same thing earlier, but had forgotten it in the heat of the moment.

"Oh," said Neal. "I just assumed—I mean, if the FBI will have me back, I—"

"Yes." Peter didn't bother to hide his relief. "I'll clear it with Hughes."

Neal looked over his shoulder. "Good. I miss working with you."

"Frankly, I'm amazed you had time to miss anything," Peter said, and caught his mouth in a kiss.

"Other than that, you're staying here, right?" said El, snuggling in closer. "With us?"

"Are you sure?" Neal was watching Peter, gauging his reaction.

Peter nodded, aware of the mundane details of the room around them—the clutter on his dresser, El's comfortably worn robe, the closet with his plain navy suits. "I know it's a couple of steps down from June's place, but—"

Neal gave him an _are you kidding me?_ look. His hand was tight on Peter's wrist, holding his arm in place, keeping them together. "What about the Bureau?"

"There's no rule against fraternization between an agent and an independent contractor," Peter told him. "None we can't get around, anyway. So why should they care?"

Neal blinked while that sank in. "You want to come out?"

"They can think whatever they want to think." Peter put his mouth very close to Neal's ear. "I love you."

He raised his head and caught a glimpse of El's expression, glowing with tenderness. "So, Neal honey, what do you say? Are you perverted enough to settle down with an old married couple?"

"Yes," said Neal. Tension eased from his body, leaving him pliant and more relaxed than Peter had ever seen him before. "Yes, please. Yes."

"You know, a year ago, I thought I had everything I could ever want," said Peter. He leaned over Neal to kiss El. "Good job, beautiful loving amazing wife, house, car, dog. Nothing missing."

"And now?" asked El, warmth and laughter in her eyes.

Neal stretched and rolled onto his back, looking from El to Peter with a level of satisfaction that would put a cat to shame. El and Peter moved to take his hand at the same time, ending up with one big tangle of fingers.

Peter grinned. "This is better."

 

 

End.


End file.
